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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346123">Not To Brawl</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor'>roggietaylor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1975-ish, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Early Queen (Band), Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape Aftermath, Recovery, emphasis on Attempted rape</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:08:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>54,013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger knows Brian has feelings for him. As a courtesy, he pretends he doesn't, and doesn't bother to wonder if those feelings are reciprocal. He's more comfortable pretending he has no feelings beyond the fun-loving persona he projects to the world. But a traumatic run-in that leaves him worse for wear physically and mentally, he finds there's a limit to what emotions he can pretend he doesn't feel before he spirals.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian May/Roger Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello all!</p>
<p>Well, as you can probably tell by the tags, this fic is a bit darker in subject matter and to an extent in tone. I say to an extent because this story is primarily about recovery and not all too dissimilar from my other fics in that sense. That's the same reason I didn't flag this as a "non-con fic", I think that warning is more reserved for graphic violence, front and center constantly rather than the aftermath (but correct me if I'm wrong!). </p>
<p>I'm used to writing in tandem, two fics updating at the same time, so to make up for the sort of heavy nature of this one, the other fic will be very light-hearted haha! </p>
<p>(Also, this is set during their second tour of America in early 1975)!</p>
<p>Hope you enjoy this first chapter, please do comment if you do!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
<p></p></div><p>Roger, like most, hated the midwest. He could still remember the first time he had the misfortune of stepping off the plane in St. Louis the year before. Their tour with Mott had been his introduction to the country, and on their second night they played in a state whose name sounded too close to ‘misery’ to be a coincidence. The flashing lights of New York, the neon palms of Los Angeles, even the strange swampy voodoo of New Orleans and Houston had their charms. But what charm was in the center of the country? Roger suspected they put any culture, any entertainment, strictly on the coasts to entice newcomers, and his their boring farmlands and mini-malls in the center.</p>
<p>And they were in the center again. Wisconsin this time. Roger figured he really shouldn’t complain about the Milwaukee’s and Toledo’s of the world when the looming threat of having to play somewhere even more desolate, Montana, Nebraska, loomed in the back of his mind. But still, he figured, with the bit of success under their belt, couldn’t they play more on the coasts and less in the cornfields?</p>
<p>“Should we even bother going out?” John said with a laugh. A valid question. Bars were hard enough to come by, clubs were practically non existent. The midwesterners liked to drink to forget, Roger figured, and were never inclined to be dancing the night away how most everywhere else was.</p>
<p>“I sort of like it,” Brian said with a laugh as he wiped the bit of eyeliner he’d worn for the show off his skin. Roger watched that flick of black smear under Brian’s fingertips, mixing and melting with the moisturiser he was massaging in. He looked good in that, in eyeliner.</p>
<p>“C’mon,” Freddie scoffed, “I’m all for a silver lining but we’d all rather be in a stone’s throw of the ocean right now.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t <em>choose</em> to stay,” Brian clarified, “but there’s a quaintness about it. Like we’re in the countryside but much warmer.”</p>
<p>“It’s not even that much warmer,” Roger huffed. It was, he figured, about as toasty there in Michigan as it was in London. Brian was just too much of an optimist to tell.</p>
<p>“It’s winter—” Freddie began.</p>
<p>“It’s almost spring,” Brian interrupted.</p>
<p>“Which means <em>it’s winter</em>,” Freddie hissed, “nowhere is warm and toasty, that’s hardly a reason to enjoy it here.”</p>
<p>“If you three are intent on being miserable—”</p>
<p>“Who said I wanted to be miserable!” Freddie laughed. He reapplied a bit of the eyeliner he’d wiped off. The long black wings he drew, nearly out to his temple, wouldn’t suit him out on the streets, certainly not streets paved with so many farmers. But he wasn’t one to let something like that stop him, at least not all the way. So he redrew just a bit, just enough to exaggerate his lashes. “I’m not going to wax poetic about this place, but I’m not having a horrible time either.”</p>
<p>“Well <em>I</em> am,” Roger said with a smirk. John rubbed off his eyeshadow with a damp cottonwool pad, smearing it in every direction before getting a new one and wiping off the remainder. Roger watched on, his eyes glancing over the three of them sitting at the vanity. He’d worn makeup a few times in their earlier days, when it felt more like a statement less like a part of his wardrobe. After a night when Freddie’s mascara wand poked his eye and left it watering through the whole set he swore off the stuff. Wasn’t much use as a drummer anyway, all the way at the back of the stage, who cared how defined his lashes were.</p>
<p>“As if you’d rather stayed holed up in your hotel,” Brian teased, a quick glance up at Roger through the mirror. A shy smile and a quick diversion of his gaze, pink blooming on his cheeks as he uselessly rummaged through Freddie’s makeup bag for nothing, his makeup already off.</p>
<p>Roger looked away then. Not wanting to see Brian so flustered, it never sat quite right with him. He’d noticed it a long time ago, pretended he didn’t. There was an effect Roger realised he had on him, the same effect he had on most women. He couldn’t tell when it started but remembered it clearly when he first spotted it a year ago, on tour again. Brian was drunkenly grinning at him like he was the world, Roger was confusedly grinning right back and laughing at the way Brian blushed until they both fell asleep in Roger’s bed. He’d spent nights in Brian’s bed before, drunk and tired, too lazy to take his shoes off and Brian too willing to let him stay over. Though Roger hadn’t found anything out of sorts about it, when Brian woke up he apologised on an embarrassed loop, begged Roger to forget it, and rushed out.</p>
<p>Roger didn’t forget, but he never brought it up. He acted a fool most of the time but he was smart, smart enough to put two and two together, to figure out why a cuddly night amongst friends had riddled him with humiliated guilt. And as much as Brian didn’t want it brought up, Roger didn’t either.</p>
<p>If men looked at him, he smiled and looked away. On a good day, rejection wasn’t his strong suit. No matter the reason, telling any woman a straight ‘no’ felt cruel unless they were of the same crass and loud nature as Roger, in which case, he didn’t mind it, knew they’d be fine hearing the bad news. But the shier ones were so much more painful. It was always more tedious trying not to hurt their feelings with the truth. In the end he almost always opted for silence in hopes that it would get the message across without embarrassing either one of them. Brian reminded him of those shy ones. The ones who painfully worked up the courage to talk to him only for Roger to have no interest in their sort, the sort that couldn’t look at him without blushing.</p>
<p>And though a year ago he panicked, terrified Brian might start something that required a loud and clear ‘no’, he was more comfortable in it now, in knowing that Brian knew it was best kept to himself.</p>
<p>But still.</p>
<p>Roger reached a hand out, wrapped one of Brian’s curls around his finger, never looking up to see Brian’s reaction.</p>
<p>The attention was nice, the averted glances were…well… not <em>cute</em> but something of that nature. Something endearing that made Roger want to see more of them. It felt mean sometimes, to intentionally tease him to the point of blushing, but Brian never complained.</p>
<p>He wrapped a different curl around another finger, tugged lightly by mistake and mumbled a quiet ‘sorry’.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” Brian squeaked. Roger looked up to the mirror, Brian kept his head down, exactly the position he’d been in when Roger reached for a curl, unwilling to move a muscle while Roger ran his fingers through his hair.</p>
<p>“Roger,” Freddie said a bit too loudly, though with no obvious intent, “what was the club’s name?”</p>
<p>“How should I know?” Roger shrugged, his hand in Brian’s hair loosened and fell out. Only then did Brian straight his neck and back.</p>
<p>“I thought you were the one who found it,” Freddie turned in his seat to look at him.</p>
<p>Roger shook his head. “I didn’t find it—it was a roadie told me ‘bout it,”</p>
<p>“How’s the roadie know about it?” John said, like a roadie’s meager knowledge of midwestern clubs meant a subtle downgrade in John’s expectations.</p>
<p>“How would<em> I</em> know about it?” Roger laughed. “I don’t summer in—where the fuck are we?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Freddie shrugged, “Idaho?”</p>
<p>“Michigan,” John sighed as Brian tiredly corrected, “Milwaukee.”</p>
<p>“Those don’t even sound real,” Freddie sighed, thoroughly defeated.</p>
<p>“It’ll be fun,” Brian said, clapping his hands to try and energise them all.</p>
<p>“We may as well head for a bowling alley at this rate,” John sighed.</p>
<p>“Gun to my head, I figure about half this city is planning on a bowling night as well,” Roger groaned.</p>
<p>“I wish I had a gun to my head,” John added forlornly.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Freddie grumbled, “no more fussing, we’ll have a good time or die trying.”</p>
<p>“One sounds more likely than the other,” Roger added, biting his cheek when Freddie turned to glare at him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roger almost forgot he was in the middle of nowhere. Probably because he was only in the middle of nowhere by his own standards, not by the standards of Wisconsin citizens who saw Milwaukee as the hub of culture, or at least entertainment. Enough young people lived there to afford them a nearly-sold out show, which meant there were enough of the same to provide them a club filled with fashionable and generally beautiful people.</p>
<p>Roger found there to be an element to American women that the ones back home didn’t have. He thought it might be something about their forwardness that matched his own, or their lack of that English sense of propriety that, when English women broke from, ended up messier and more chaotic than Roger cared to keep up with. But more recently he figured it was probably the better hairstyles, and the tans. He fawned over them like he was madly in love with each woman who was thin enough to catch his eye.</p>
<p>Of course being from the middle of nowhere, living in a city with fewer people than his four block neighbourhood back home, meant conversation was rather lifeless. In most places he didn’t notice when he had nothing terribly interesting to say. That never mattered. And he’d assumed it wouldn’t matter to women there either, assumed their goal was as base and primal as his own and long conversations weren’t required past the affirmation that they thought the other was fit.</p>
<p>Maybe that was naive. But he certainly hadn’t expected to have to pretend to care, to try and contribute to one woman telling him about her modeling career that, if they were honest with each other, wasn’t going anywhere given that she was just barely five feet tall. Another woman droned about the clothing store she ran, something Roger thought he might be able to contribute to, but the minute he tried to explain Kensington she shut down and muttered that she’d never visited England before leaving his side. Rather than take another defeat, Roger caught Brian’s eye across the room and joined him at the booth he was holed up in.</p>
<p>“Struck out?” he asked as he slid in by Brian, his whiskey running low but he’d worry about that later.</p>
<p>“Is it just me or does ‘I’m a musician’ not work how it used to?” Brian said with a smirk.</p>
<p>“Honestly, I thought the accents would get us most of the way there,” Roger sighed. “I honestly think we may as well sound like Geordies to them. I doubt anyone in this rooms been on an aeroplane.” He sipped the last of his whiskey and slammed the glass down.</p>
<p>“Pretty though,” Brian offered lazily.</p>
<p>“What good’s pretty do when it’s locked up like that,” Roger scoffed.</p>
<p>“John seems to be doing fine,” Brian said, nodding his head in John’s direction. He sat in some corner, some woman in his arm, her fingers running over his palm while they spoke.</p>
<p>“He’s got that,” Roger gestured across his face, searching for the right words, “that real innocent look.”</p>
<p>“You think that <em>he</em> has that look?” Brian laughed. “<em>You</em> think that?”</p>
<p>“What’s that mean?” Roger said with a half grin.</p>
<p>“That’s<em> you</em>,” Brian said before gulping down the last of his own drink. “Ever since I’ve known you—women see you and think you’re an innocent little—little—I don’t know what—they think you need to be babied.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never been babied,” Roger laughed, though he knew that wasn’t true. Knew his big eyes and soft jaw meant, especially in his younger years, women thought he was new to their ways no matter how many times he proved he wasn’t. He also knew it used to get under Brian’s skin. Years back, Brian spent weeks working up the charisma to get a barmaid he knew to go out with him, and made the horrible mistake of introducing Roger to her. He hadn’t known Brian’s interest in her until he mentioned something about what an awful lay she’d been and Brian flew into a tizzy. Roger never knew why though. He didn’t love her, it wasn’t a horrible overstep of their friendship. But he figured it played into how often Brian mentioned he wished he could break his nose and have a surgeon craft him a whole new one, or how he always blanched and shut up when Roger teased him for staying a virgin until the ripe old age of nineteen.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t hurt you to get brought down a peg,” Brian said with a grin.</p>
<p>“A few bumpkins brushing me off won’t damage my ego or my good looks one bit,” Roger retorted with an equal grin. Brian sighed out of his gaze, stared at his empty glass instead, a smile lingering on his face. “I need another drink.”</p>
<p>“You owe me one too,” Brian said, half forceful half ready to accept no for an answer.</p>
<p>“Why’s that?” Roger said.</p>
<p>“Dunno, I just figure you do by now.”</p>
<p>“It all goes back to the same tab,” Roger said with a roll of his eyes.</p>
<p>“What?” Brian cocked his head. “There’s no tab for us here.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Roger said, trying to quickly add up just how many drinks he’d charged for himself and the women around him.</p>
<p>“Maybe <em>I</em> better get this one,” Brian said, shaking his head. He moved to hop out of the booth but stopped when a waiter set another whiskey on the table. Just one that he pushed in Roger’s direction. “What’s that?”</p>
<p>“Whiskey for the blond one,” the waiter replied, five more drinks on his tray, a lot to get through, so much so that he neglected to say who it came from before walking off with purpose.</p>
<p>“See,” Roger said, wrapped his hand around the drink and swirling the liquid inside, “give me another five minutes and I’ll bet I can make a drink appear for you too.”</p>
<p>“Who sent that?” Brian said checking over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Her I bet,” Roger said, staring at the short model across the room. She caught his eye, waved shyly. Roger downed the single whiskey she’d sent him and mouthed ‘thanks’ with a wink.</p>
<p>She furrowed her brow, shook her head slightly. Roger pointed at the glass, then back to her. Trying to get the message across of ‘yes you sent this to me, thank you’. She shook her head more vigorously, pointing to herself a bit drunkenly when she did. ‘No I didn’t’. Roger cocked his head, his expression of confusion matching hers to the letter before he scanned the room for the other woman, the one who seemed entirely offput by a rather short description of London.</p>
<p>“What is it?” Brian said</p>
<p>Roger didn’t see the other woman. He saw John, still talking to the woman who was hanging on his every word. Saw Freddie in the corner with two men thoroughly entranced by whatever theatric story he was telling. Neither of them would’ve sent it. He gazed around the dark room for another moment, looking for an explanation. And found one. In the form of a rather small man at the bar, looking at him with an embarrassed smile and an awkward wave.</p>
<p>“Damn it,” Roger muttered. He waved back out of habit, gave the man a thumbs up but left it there, hoping not to encourage any more contact.</p>
<p>“What, who was it?”</p>
<p>“Some—some guy over there,” Roger said. He pursed his lips at the empty drink in front of him and wondered if drinking it would imply he was in some way interested.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Brian said, perking up a bit, “did you say thank you?”</p>
<p>“No,” Roger laughed. “I don’t want him to come over.”</p>
<p>“Which one is he?” Brian said, turning around as much as he could to see.</p>
<p>“God—” Roger reached across the table and swatted him, “don’t be so obvious.”</p>
<p>“What’s he care? He sent you a drink,” Brian said with a tense scoff.</p>
<p>Roger rolled his eyes and in the process noticed the man still looking at him. Not an intense glare but still facing Roger, still eyeing him like something might come of the drink. He averted his eyes as much as he could and muttered his description to Brian who was so desperate for a look. A small man in terms of muscle, but tall. Not quite Brian’s height but definitely taller than Roger. He looked uncomfortable, like clubs weren’t his scene, like sending a stranger a drink took a lot of courage for him. And though Roger didn’t want to dash his confidence, he <em>really</em> didn’t want to do anything to feed it.</p>
<p>“Not you type then?” Brian said with a laugh that sounded insincere enough that Roger had hardly registered it as a laugh.</p>
<p>“Very funny,” Roger huffed. “I took the drink and didn’t walk over,” Roger said, half to himself, half to Brian, “he get’s that I’m saying no right?”</p>
<p>“Right,” Brian confirmed with a grin that didn’t match the way Roger chewed his lip in anxiety. “You look terrified.”</p>
<p>“I’m not,” Roger laughed out some of his nervous energy.</p>
<p>“Do you do this every time a man hits on you?” Brian said. Roger glanced up at him and found him poking at the melting icecube in his empty glass with his straw. Confirming what Roger suspected. That the question held a bit more weight than it seemed. That he might be asking something else. But what, Roger couldn’t be sure. He hoped it was more a gauge of how many other men were after Roger, a low number might be comforting to Brian. But that underlying question could also be, ‘would you panic if I hit on you?’</p>
<p>“Er,” Roger said, his fingertips drumming the sides of his empty glass, “men don’t hit on me much.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I figured you were getting offers left and right,” Brian said, his tone sounding relieved.</p>
<p>“I guess any man who knows me well enough to know that I’m not dangerous to their sort,” Roger eyed Brian carefully when he added, “also knows I’m not…y’know…bent.”</p>
<p>Brian caught his eye for a moment. “Y-yeah,” he said stammering, “right, that makes sense I guess.”</p>
<p>Roger stomach turned at the way Brian’s face fell. He wanted to reach out, promise him it wasn’t his own fault, promise him he didn’t mind it, promise him he had no cause for the embarrassed redness on his face. He didn’t have to be embarrassed, Roger wanted to tell him. He liked it. He thought it was sweet the way Brian looked at him with heartsick eyes and pink cheeks if Roger smiled. Most days he looked forward to the way Brian tried to make him laugh, the way he listened to Roger’s stories like they were always the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. Roger wanted to reach out and beg him not to be embarrassed by those things, to beg him not to stop.</p>
<p>“But it’s always nice,” Roger said after an uneven amount of silence, “to know someone fancies you.”</p>
<p>“Is it?” Brian scoffed. “I wouldn’t really know.”</p>
<p>“Sure you would,” Roger elbowed him. “Most people hide it pretty well but...I mean—I’ve never,” he focused hard, his eyelids blinking slower than usual, desperate to keep his words vague and polite, “I’ve never had someone tell me—or even hint at their feelings, and been anything but flattered.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” Brian said with an awkward nod. “Well, you get that too often to waste time getting upset,” Brian added with a laugh.</p>
<p>“Not really,” Roger said, his head swimming from the whiskey just a bit, “a lot of women say they fancy me after I’ve got the guts up to say hello. In my life, the only real confessions like that’ve been at school, otherwise I was so obvious with my own feelings it wasn’t much of a risk.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Brian said cocking his head.</p>
<p>“More people like you than you think,” Roger said with a nod that felt patronising even to him. “Definitely more than you’ll ever know.”</p>
<p>“I don’t need a pep talk,” Brian said with a strange sharpness.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t offering you one,” Roger said. He tried to conjure up something vague but pointed. Something to comfort Brian in knowing he may fancy Roger now but there was hope for him yet, plenty of it. How could there not be lines upon lines waiting to know him, to love him. And he might’ve added that, despite Brian’s insistence he wasn’t feeling down on himself. But the idea of Brian going off to fawn over someone new, of not working to stay close to him, made him wince. Not that he wanted Brian to himself but…</p>
<p>“He’s still looking at you I think,” Brian said.</p>
<p>“Is he?” Roger glanced up, caught the man’s eye only for a split second before focusing on the wood of the table. “Fuck.”</p>
<p>“I can go over and say you’re not interested?”</p>
<p>“That’s okay,” Roger said with a sigh, “we can wait him out.”</p>
<p>“What’s that mean?”</p>
<p>“Means you’ll sit and chat with me until he loses interest so I don’t have to turn him down,” Roger said with a grin in Brian’s direction, one he tried hard not to reciprocate.</p>
<p>“What makes you think I want to waste my night with you?” Brian said with a grin wider than Roger’s.</p>
<p>“I’m ten times the fun of any woman in here,” Roger said with no hesitation.</p>
<p>“I bet you are,” Brian said with a breathy laugh. Roger didn’t react save for shifting his leg over so his knee could graze Brian’s under the table.</p>
<p>Their chattered meandered back to the show, a stellar one despite the way they both took shots at each other’s playing. A right they’d earned after so long together. In the early days of Smile, Roger would never dream of criticising him and vice versa. But now, for a long time now, it was obvious the admiration they had for each other, the respect and odd sort of pride they felt seeing the other play that it hurt no one’s feelings for either of them to hear a cheery ‘I heard that slip up’ or ‘the audience didn’t notice, but I did’.</p>
<p>Times like these, in a quiet corner of a bar, ignoring the women that had started to look their way in favour of each other’s company, Roger wished he had more time with Brian. He loved John like a brother, Freddie like a twin, but sometimes he missed the days when he and Brian were part of a powerful trio. When Freddie was just a friend of theirs, when John was waiting to be met, when he and Brian could spend days practicing together and it felt like only hours had passed.</p>
<p>“Next show I think you could extend that solo,” Brian said.</p>
<p>“Mm,” Roger added, the sound fighting hard to get out of him. He shook his hand out, sat up a little straighter. “I dunno, I think sometimes drum solos are a death wish. There’s a reason Keith Moon won’t do ‘em.”</p>
<p>“Keith Moon’s not you,” Brian said with a smile that faded the longer he looked at Roger. He reached up self-consciously to his face, trying to figure out what he was staring at. “You look a little glassy.”</p>
<p>“Glassy?” Roger said. “Whiskey I guess.”</p>
<p>“You sure?” Brian said, entirely unconvinced.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Roger repeated, shifting in his seat, noting how that slight shift left him feeling like he was out to sea, rocking to and fro, how the lights in the club, however dim, felt blinding and streaky enough to obscure whatever might lay around them. He cleared his throat. “Actually, that whiskey might’ve gone to my head a bit.”</p>
<p>“Or are you coming down with something?” Brian said, his voice full of concern, like a little cold might mark the end of Roger.</p>
<p>“No no,” Roger waved the thought away, “I was drinking the cheap whiskey, that last one must’ve been a little more aged than I thought.” He said it with a laugh but didn’t hide the way he wiped the cold sweat off his forehead and struggled to remember what he was meant to do with his hands.</p>
<p>“Oi!” John’s voice called, a few feet off with a woman trailing behind. Roger grinned at him, a wide, strange grin that John winced at the closer he got. “Stop that, ’s fuckin’ weird.”</p>
<p>“What’s going on?” Brian said. Roger let his smile drop and reached a hand up to massage the muscle in his cheek, it didn’t quite feel like it normally did. Didn’t quite move how he was used to.</p>
<p>“I thought me and her might head back, are you two alright if I take the car?” John said. The car. The one car they were all four meant to use to get back to the hotel or else it was taxis. In bigger cities their management was usually able to get them each a car for the journey back upon request, though they typically didn’t mind stuffing two girls in one ride home. But here, in the depths of hell, there was one car that they could rent for the night. At least, one car for the four of them, another few for the crew and so on. One car that Roger had no real intention of using seeing as he had planned on someone else taking it before he could taxi back to the hotel with some bird. That reality had left nearly a half hour ago when he sat by Brian. “Fred’s fine if you two are.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Brian said with a shrug and a half-hearted wave at the woman with John.</p>
<p>“And you?” John said.</p>
<p>Roger looked up at him, using far more of his energy than normal when he turned his head, opened his eyes all the way, far too much. “Erhm, I don’t feel so good, I might—I might need it back.” The car could always drop John back at the hotel and circle back for Roger, in fact their management made that the selling point when they unceremoniously informed them they’d all be riding to the club crammed together in a volvo. But suddenly the fifteen odd minutes it’d take for the car to circle felt impossibly long.</p>
<p>“You don’t look so good,” John said, eyeing Roger like whatever he had was catching.</p>
<p>“I er,” Roger fumbled to stand, his legs feeling less like his own and more like mush, “I’m gonna get some air.”</p>
<p>“Want company?” Brian said.</p>
<p>“Yeah, you look really pale, Rog,” John added.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Roger said quickly. “Might be sick I think,” he added a little shamefully. A few whiskeys and he was nauseous? Since when was he that much of a lightweight? Embarrassing enough to admit but he knew he’d be far more embarrassed to get sick off a few whiskeys <em>in front</em> of Brian or John. “Strong whiskey,” he said before stumbling away from the table. The music was far, far too loud, much louder than he remembered it being. He elbowed his way through the crowed and felt the cold wind from the outside steal the air from his lungs when he opened the door.</p>
<p>He coughed, sputtered a bit and stood, very tense and very uncoordinated, a few metres from the entrance. His hands limp and almost unusable when he reached in his pocket for his Marlboros and his lighter. His thumb worked hard to spark a flame, a flame he normally could conjure up with a snap of his fingers. He took a long drag off his freshly lit cigarette, feeling a strange relief when he didn’t have to hold the lighter up anymore. The few ounces it weighed feeling like tens of pounds in his palm. He breathed out slow, let the smoke spiral around him, hoping a deep breath might calm him, though quickly became aware that nicotine would not.</p>
<p>“Hey,” a voice said, deep but tinny. Roger blinked to this left, saw the flimsy man who had sent him a drink.</p>
<p>“I’m not—” Roger began, not in the mood to mince words any longer, not with the sound of the city practically deafening him despite being no louder than a suburb.</p>
<p>“Can I get a light?” he interrupted, gesturing with the unlit cigarette in one hand, a nearly-empty beer bottle in the other.</p>
<p>“Er,” Roger hesitated for many reasons, not the least of which being his difficulty lighting his own cigarette. So he opted to throw his lighter, a subtle toss that felt like the world. Something that might keep the man away and something that wouldn’t require him trying to flick it on again.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” the man said edging up too close to Roger.</p>
<p>He cut the drag of his cigarette short, held it in his lungs for a split second before quickly exhaling and stepping one half-step to his right, away from the man.</p>
<p>“Sorry if I came on too strong,” the man said as Roger shifted ever so slightly away from him, “I’m a big fan.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Roger said, reaching up to wipe his forehead again, “that’s—that’s nice, thank you.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to bother you but since you came outside I figured I might ask for an autograph,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Roger perked up, though his body only let that become apparent in his voice, every muscle too slow to react. “Oh that’s why you sent that drink? A signature?”</p>
<p>“I know it’s putting you out,” he said, eyeing the way Roger had started to breathe a little heavier and wince when cars went by.</p>
<p>“It’s not,” Roger said, ever one to please fans, “sorry I’m,” he sighed, unable to get enough air but just barely, “not feeling very well.”</p>
<p>“You do look pale,” he said. “Is it too loud out here for you?” he asked, citing the way Roger flinched at every passing car.</p>
<p>“Maybe,” Roger nodded.</p>
<p>“Here, it’s quieter over back there,” the man said with a tentative hand on Roger’s shoulder that quickly left as he headed around the corner of the building, Roger following behind blindly, anything to get away from the loud streets, the bright lights. And the side alley of the club fit that bill. Quieter, darker, and there was no need to feel guilty about blocking a path or looking sloppy and drunk if, or most likely when, he threw up what little whiskey he’d had. The only light back there emanating from an old yellow lamp by what Roger figured was the service entrance to the club.</p>
<p>“What was the whiskey you sent me?” Roger said, a little out of breath and more grateful than anything else to be out of the blinding streetlights and away from the constant hum of the road.</p>
<p>“You know I don’t have any paper on me for you to sign,” he said it like it was some horrible confession, “or a pen.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Roger said, unsure what he was meant to do about that. He turned to him, a little dazed but trying hard not to let some poor fan’s only interaction with him be his strange drunken stupor without even an autograph to show for it. “Let me see what I’ve…” his words trailed off as he patted his pockets, looking for a pen and paper he knew didn’t exist. “I don’t think I’ve got,” he said, one hand in his jacket pocket, searching desperately, when he was cut off by the man lurching forward, mashing his lips against Roger’s and shoving him hard against the wall in the process.</p>
<p>With what little strength he had left, what little energy he could find it in himself to muster, he shoved the man off. Silence followed. Roger stared at him with a tired look of disbelief while the man stared back blankly. Roger thought a punch might be earned here, but only had the strength for a slap. A slap that the man hissed at at first, then laughed at.</p>
<p>“It’s all right,” he said.</p>
<p>“What?” Roger breathed, slow and barely audible. The man laughed when he pressed Roger more firmly against the wall, kissed him too hard, let his beer bottle drop and shatter on the cold ground. Roger tightened his lips, barred his teeth, and tried to wince his way out of the obtrusive, unwelcome kiss.</p>
<p>The man broke away, dragged his lips across Roger’s neck. Roger groaned in a strangled disgust and kicked, hard, at the man’s foot, hoping to knock him off balance, or—fuck—at very least hurt him enough to make him recoil, even just for a moment. But when his foot kicked the man’s shin it felt impossibly weak. The man made some noise of recognition that Roger hit him, but certainly didn’t lose his footing or recoil how Roger hoped. Instead he huffed at Roger’s attempt and tugged Roger’s trousers until the button popped open.</p>
<p>“Wait—wait, I’m not—I’m not interested,” Roger said pointlessly. As if this were a misunderstanding, as if the man cared if he was interested. He ignored Roger’s kind brush-off and shoved his hand down his pants, his cold fingers warming on Roger’s skin.</p>
<p>Roger shifted his hips back against the wall, his muscles so relaxed and unwilling to cooperate with even that simple request. But a simple shift of his hips didn’t deter the man. Neither did Roger’s futile attempts at hitting him, kicking him, wriggling out of his hold. Every muscle far too weak to do the job. And though he knew there was no avoiding the slightest bit of intrigue his body showed at the man’s touch, it didn’t stop his stomach turning, didn’t stop him shaking in the man’s grip like he might burst from pure confused disgust.</p>
<p>“Get off,” Roger breathed, each word a marathon.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” the man said, his hand left Roger to unzip himself.</p>
<p>Roger tried hard to scream then, the very sight of the man’s hardened cock filling him with a strange primal fear like the sight might kill him. No sound came, either from the exhaustion washing over him in confused waves, or from the shock of it. And while the horrible sight and implied promise of impending danger didn’t give him any ability to scream, it reinvigorated whatever was left of his energy to struggle. He pressed his forearms against his chest, doing his best to shove him off, kicked up blindly, unable to knee him how he’d like.</p>
<p>“Fuck’s sake,” the man said, gripping Roger tight and throwing him to the ground. Something Roger couldn’t exactly save himself from in his current state. He landed on the scratchy concrete and winced at how it stung, almost like he was burning. It kept stinging, everywhere his skin touched the cold ground it hurt like thousands of needles pricking him over and over. He worked to focus his vision on the ground in front of him, on the hand by his face, turning his fingers over to see minuscule shards of green in his palm.</p>
<p>“Is this glass?” Roger said, tiredly, almost able to sit up from the way the beer bottle shards invigorated his system. But was quickly quashed by the man bending his arm up behind his back, edging it on dislocation. “Wait wait—” Roger began as the man settled between his limp, splayed legs. “I’ve got money, I’ve got lots of money.” A lie that he knew he didn’t have to prove, not right then.</p>
<p>“It’s all right,” the man said, trying to tug Roger’s trousers down with his free hand, his other wrapped firm around Roger’s wrist, ensuring he didn’t move a muscle, or else risk his shoulder popping out.</p>
<p>“Please don’t,” Roger huffed, his only line of defense at this point. His cheek, his hip, stung horribly from the glass, his arm ached with an overextension of his muscle, and the rest of his body felt almost numb and unusable. All he could do now was beg. “Please don’t.”</p>
<p>“Oi!” a familiar voice screamed from the mouth of the alley. “Fuck’re you doing?!” John. “Fuck’s going on?!”</p>
<p>John’s words sounded shaky, almost scared. Fuck was he scared for? He wasn’t pressed into a glassy floor with only the warmth of an unwanted stranger for company and a complete loss of motor function. But even with that slight shake, the volume of his words, his very presence in the alley, were enough for the man to loosen his grip on Roger’s arm.</p>
<p>From there it was a mad dash away from each other. Roger lurched forward, scraping across the floor with what little strength was left while the man hopped to his feet and scurried off in the other direction as John yelled obscenities and threats on his heels, stopping all of that entirely when he got to Roger.</p>
<p>“He’s back here, Fred!” John called down the alley as Roger fumbled himself up to his hands and knees. “You okay?” John said, bending slightly when he extended a hand down to help Roger to his feet.</p>
<p>“Uh-huh,” Roger panted. Out of breath not entirely from struggling but from how little his lungs seemed to be able to pull in. Almost as if his body was asleep before his mind was. His palms cut against the glass on the ground, he knew his cheek was in bad shape too, but most of him was too scared to glance down at the tender spot across his hip and lower belly, where he’d felt that slightly numb burn from the glass pierce him a bit harder. He took John’s hand, let John do most of the work in pulling him up. And once on his feet, John stumbled back as he held most of Roger’s weight.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” he squeaked, wrapping an arm around Roger’s middle for better leverage, “how much did you have?”</p>
<p>Roger didn’t have the energy to explain, being upright was too much work for his body just then. He went limp in John’s arms, sighing a strange low groan when he did like some defeated animal of prey.</p>
<p>“Freddie!” John screamed. Roger let his eyes slip closed. He could do that now, could give into the exhaustion. Nothing bad would happen in John’s arms with Freddie around the corner.</p>
<p>“Jesus fucking christ,” Freddie’s voice rang down the alley. “Brian—get the fucking car.”</p>
<p>He could remember Freddie’s hands cupping his face, could remember the way he winced in pain at the sight of him. Then his eyes slipped closed again. He muttered sloppy apologies for how much the two of them had to carry him, how useless his legs were. By the time he heard the hum of the road, felt the burning light from the streetlights singe his eyelids, he’d slipped so far into the feeling that keeping his head up was a gargantuan feat he wasn’t willing to perform.</p>
<p>He spilled into the car, apologising profusely as he struggled to get his feet under him, to get his bearings long enough to make room for the other three. He laid across the back seat, his eyes shut but watering from frustration as he struggled hard to move how he intended, his body ignoring him at every turn. It wasn’t until he let out a frustrated, screaming sob, that Freddie bent his knees for him and eased him into his seat better.</p>
<p>His apologies kept on a loop, his eyes fluttering open and closed with each bump in the road, catching glimpses of the way John and Brian stared at him from their spots on the spacious floor between back and front seats, both staring at him like the world was ending while Freddie, at his side, ran his fingertips across Roger’s cheek, plucking glass as he went.</p>
<p>“Stop apologising,” Freddie said. “And there’s no need to cry.”</p>
<p><em>I’m crying?</em> Roger thought. He reached a hand up to his cheek, felt wetness there.</p>
<p>“It’s alright, we’re almost back to the hotel,” Freddie said. Roger nodded subtly and closed his eyes, hoping to get a taste of that rest his body was so badly craving.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t we keep him awake?” Brian said with an air of panic. Roger wanted to add something about how that would be impossible. How he’d barely been able to stay awake with the added pump of adrenaline earlier, he’d never be able to stay up in the safety of a hotel room.</p>
<p>“Why’s he breathing like that?” John said, sounding a lot like a scared child.</p>
<p>“He can’t stay awake, Brian, look at him,” Freddie said.</p>
<p>“He can’t sleep like that, Fred, that can’t be good,” Brian insisted.</p>
<p>“Can’t you drive any fucking faster?!” John shouted up at the driver.</p>
<p>“Rog,” Freddie said, patting his palm against Roger’s un-harmed cheek, “Rog, darling, don’t fall asleep yet.”</p>
<p>Roger nodded, eyes shut still, his best effort in staying awake. Though he wasn’t awake really. He was in and out of sleep. Occasionally hearing glimpses of their bickering back and forth, hearing them shout at the driver. He vaguely remembered the bright light of the hotel lobby and Freddie’s kind voice guiding him through it and laughing that fake laugh Roger hated so much. He saw himself in the elevator mirror, just a glance, a blurry glance, but he knew, even from that, he looked like hell.</p>
<p>His eyes rolled open when Freddie pulled him into his hotel room’s bathroom. No one had all of his in their grip and with a push onto the slick tiles floor he fell with a thud that brought some life back into him but knocked most air out of him. He looked up through glassy vision at their three worried faces illuminated by the horrible sterile glow of the bathroom light. And he wished he had the energy, the air in his lungs, to promise them he was fine, that he’d be fine, that nothing was wrong, that they could laugh. But he didn’t have the energy.</p>
<p>Freddie apologised for the fall and heaved him up, leant him against the toilet. He told Roger to get sick, Roger didn’t know how to tell him he couldn’t stand much less shove his fingers down his throat. But the thought was communicated by Roger’s pathetic attempt which was just him failing to get his fingers any deeper than a few knuckles before the muscles in his arm gave out. So Freddie did it for him, apologising the whole way and thanking Roger for not biting his fingers, as if Roger could have even if he wanted to.</p>
<p>He threw up what little was in his stomach, though he didn’t know how much of that would help with whatever was in his system. He did though, at very least, feel a little more settled without all the whiskey churning together with his stomach acid. And, in a way, it felt like his body knew that was the last thing it had to do that might’ve helped. Seconds after he’d got the last of it up, any lingering tension or will to stay awake and alert left him. He’d done his part in terms of his instinct, he’d got somewhere safe and done all he could to rid himself of the substance tearing him inside out. He was, on a deep level, satisfied that he could rest now. He relaxed fully and entirely against Freddie and toilet bowl, giving in entirely to that looming, nightmarishly deep sleep he’d been fighting all night.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's been a bit hasn't it! Sorry for the wait but this chapter is 12k so hopefully that makes up for it some what &lt;3 90% of the chapters I write are dying to come out and do get written just about as fast as I can type but every so often I get one that goes nearly line by line haha! I hope everyone reading enjoys this chapter and if you do please leave a comment &lt;333</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</div><p>When he woke it was with a start, a jolt through his whole body like he’d been trapped in a nightmare, though his sleep had been deep and dreamless. He sat up, just enough to peek groggily around the room, to try and spot what might’ve jolted him awake. But one look at the empty room told him it was his own mind that woke him rather than a slamming door. It also confirmed he was still in Freddie’s room where he last remembered being. He checked under the covers and found he was still in the clothes he last remembered wearing. A subtle prod to his cheek proved it was just as cut up as it’d been the night before.</p><p>Not a bad dream.</p><p>He sat up as much as his aching shoulders and stinging hip would allow, kept checking the empty room for signs of life. After a few calls of everyone’s name that went answered, Roger grit his teeth and shuffled out from under the covers. If he was honest, he’d expected to surrounded by the three of them, or at least one of them, when he woke but privacy might’ve been better for him anyway.</p><p>He was a mess, he knew it the instant he swung his legs out, planted his feet on the floor, and became uncomfortably aware of the sheen of sweat covering him. His trousers were too warm, his shirt was too glittery, it clung to him awkwardly and his tangled necklaces tugged at the sweat-soaked locks of hair at the back of his neck. When he leant forward, leant back, moved much at all, his hip stung and screamed for him to stay still. Roger’s hand instinctively rushed to cover the sore spot, expecting to feel a scab or an equally rough patch of skin, but what rested there was a bandage. A makeshift bandage. Gauze sellotaped to his belly.</p><p>It was a kind thing that one or maybe all of them had done for him, and he wanted to focus on the fact that he had three friends who would and could at the drop of a hat be counted on for help, even of the most dire nature. But all he could think was how much of a disaster he’d been.</p><p>How stupid he’d been too. To drink something without thinking, to wander off alone. How weak he’d been. The man that came after him was taller but no more than 90 pounds soaking wet, Roger could tell, it was practically the first thing he’d noticed about him, and yet he’d been too weak to overpower him. He winced as the memory of the night sharpened up around the edges. He’d begged the man, he’d offered him money, and poor John had to shoo him away like a stray dog. God, he’d actually cried, he hadn’t meant to but he remembered doing it. And ended the night with a bang, vomiting and passing out against the toilet.</p><p>He shook his head, hoping the memories would go with, and made his way to the bathroom. His legs still felt a little unsteady underneath him. If anyone had seen him walk they’d reach out to help him like he might fall at any moment.</p><p>There was no clear explanation for why exactly he’d woken up alone in the wrong room, but he wasn’t going to complain. The solitude gave him a chance to settle into himself again and hopefully reclaim a little bit of the dignity he’d haemorrhaged all night. And, who knew, maybe he’d woken up alone because after he’d passed out everyone just, went to bed. Freddie might’ve taken the key from Roger’s pocket and helped himself to an empty room. They all might’ve just brushed the night off as a downer. And maybe they wouldn’t feel the need to ask Roger about it when they met in the lobby for the bus ride to Chicago.</p><p>Roger had a good idea of what he’d look like when he opened the bathroom door and caught a glance of his reflection. He knew his cheek would be torn up. It was. Horrible red scabbing, a purplish bruise on his cheekbone that was small but incredibly painful. He hadn’t expected the bruise across the bridge fo his nose, like he’d got punched. He wracked his brain trying to remember if that were the case, if the man ever hit him square in the nose. And for that matter, if the man had punched him in the mouth as his lip was split and swollen. Not horribly swollen but it gave the effect of bad injections while the bruising gave the impression of bad lipstick.</p><p>He figured he’d remember a split lip, those were always painful, so were hits to the nose, but nothing came to mind.</p><p>There was no damage control to be done, one of them had cleaned up the blood off his face and left him with a post-triage look that didn’t require a once-over with a wet flannel. But he splashed his face anyway and blindly dabbed his skin with the towel hanging over the shower rod. When he pulled back he noticed blood there too. But too much to be from just then, too dried as well.</p><p>Blood on the floor tiles too. Smeared like someone stepped in it, all leading back to the toilet whose seat and bowl were painted in the stuff. Roger stared at it, squinting his eyes and cocking his head, trying to invoke a memory his mind never created.</p><p>“Okay darling, breakfast is on,” Freddie’s voice rang from the bedroom door. “Rog?” He said. Then more panicked. “Roger?!”</p><p>“In here,” Roger replied. His voice sounded like he’d swallowed an acid tablet and let it dissolve in his throat. He hadn’t been shouting in the club. And despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been shouting in the alley. What could’ve made his voice so painful and uneven.</p><p>“Jesus, don’t scare me like that—I thought you’d disappeared,” Freddie said. Roger heard the rustle of dishes, presumably from the food Freddie brought him, but kept his eyes on the bloodied floor and toilet. He didn’t look up when he felt Freddie’s presence in the bathroom doorway. “I was too tired to clean it last night.”</p><p>“Hm?” Roger said, looking over at Freddie a bit late for his response.</p><p>“The blood,” Freddie said, “I don’t want to leave it for the maids but it’s so tedious, it’s all between the tiles.”</p><p>“Oh—I wasn’t complaining,” Roger croaked. His voice was damaged but Roger did his best to make it sound clear, to make it seem like he hardly noticed anything was wrong. “But what happened?”</p><p>“Ah,” Freddie sighed, looking at Roger with a fallen expression of sadness, or maybe regret, “well, er, last night at the club…” Freddie sighed again, sharper this time like the words were hurting him.</p><p>“I remember that,” Roger said quickly. “I meant—where’s the blood from.”</p><p>“You—oh you do remember?” The relief on Freddie’s face was clear, and Roger was sure he wore a similar expression. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about this, especially while Freddie’s big sad eyes stared at him, waiting for him to break down sobbing. “I suppose that’s good, I wouldn’t want memories like that to surprise me or—”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Roger said dismissively, “what’s the blood from?”</p><p>“Er,” Freddie flinched at how Roger interrupted but kept steady, “your lip.”</p><p>“Oh?” Roger said, absentmindedly bringing a hand up to prod at the painful bruising.</p><p>“Do you not remember?” Freddie cocked his head.</p><p>“Last thing I remember was getting sick and falling asleep,” Roger said with a shrug.</p><p>“Ah well,” Freddie sucked his teeth, “you weren’t asleep, just <em>out</em>. We all thought after you got sick we could just heave you into bed but, as we were plotting how to lift you, you sprung back to life and got sick again. Kept going for nearly a half hour, I don’t know why. It was just stomach acid but you wouldn’t stop, and, you weren’t exactly awake so you ended up bashing your lip on the bowl. I really thought you’d knocked a tooth out from the sound it made but,” Freddie took a step towards him, reached up slowly to try and examine Roger’s lip, and said nothing when Roger gently guided his hand away before it ever made contact, “thankfully it was just your lip.”</p><p>“Right,” Roger nodded, uncomfortable and unsure if maybe he ought to clean it up. If he’d been drunk Freddie’d order him too. He didn’t like that he wasn’t being ordered to this time. Freddie wasn’t doing his usual rounds of talking too loud to disturb his hangover, making him clean up the upturned furniture, and in this case the blood, he’d left in his stupor. But if he offered to clean it, if Freddie saw him reach for a flannel, they’d end up in conversation about why he didn’t need to, why it wasn’t his fault. So instead, he sidestepped Freddie and headed for the tray of food he’d brought up. “Thanks for the breakfast,” Roger said, making his way to the edge of the bed. Black coffee, hotel scones, and sausages.</p><p>“I didn’t know if you’d be up to eating,” Freddie said, still lingering in the bathroom doorway, giving Roger space he noted. Like he was a caged animal that would go wild if he was crowded. “It was a tossup considering how empty your stomach was.”</p><p>“Sorry for that,” Roger croaked out. A night of vomiting bile had done a number on his voice. He sat on the bed, crosslegged, though doggedly so. The tight curl of his body agitated the pain in his hip. “What happened to my nose?”</p><p>“Wear and tear,” Freddie said with a shrug, “John said when…when he found you, you were on the ground. Maybe it didn’t hurt to fall then but you must’ve hit something.”</p><p>“Makes sense,” Roger said, wincing at the mention of John’s name. It turned his stomach, flooded his body with icy anxiety, made his fingers tremble around the scone he was tearing apart to think about how much of this was public knowledge. At least among the four of them. John had seen it practically, and he, no doubt, told the others what he saw. He wanted to focus on the gratitude he felt for John catching him just in time, but the overwhelming emotion was sickness, embarrassment even. “What er, what did I miss?” Roger said, his hand shook when he tore a bite from the scone in his hand. He saw Freddie’s eyes focus on that shake.</p><p>“Nothing much,” he crossed the room, sat on the luggage carrier near the end of his bed, “seems like you remember everything.”</p><p>“But,” Roger stopped short of saying ‘what did you see’ or ‘what did John tell you’ or ‘did I say anything embarrassing’. He knew Freddie wouldn’t answer any of those honestly if he knew the answer would upset Roger. “Why was John in the alley? And weren’t you right behind him?”</p><p>“We all were,” Freddie said. “I was across the room and John and Brian came up and said they thought you might be getting ill. Brian said we all ought to get the car back with you, knowing us we’d all catch whatever you had and we needed rest. I think John was trying to get you and Brian gone so he could use the car—but either way, I thought it was odd you were feeling ill enough to need fresh air, so we all went out to find you and you weren’t there.”</p><p>“Hm,” Roger tutted. Glad to have the information but uncomfortable really talking about it. He wasn’t sure if his shaking hands and sweating forehead would outweigh his desperate need to know exactly what everyone knew, exactly what they thought about it too. “Did John say much?”</p><p>“About what?”</p><p>“About…” Roger coughed and held his throat when it ached at the slight usage, “about what he saw?”</p><p>“Only that he didn’t get a good look at the man,” Freddie said with a piercing gaze. An emotion behind his eyes that Roger couldn’t pin down. It was pity on the surface, the ‘it sucks that your lip’s split’ sort that was masking the deeper pity, the ‘I’m sorry you’ve been ruined’ sort.</p><p>“Well,” Roger said, snapping almost, “I’m sorry I took up your night.”</p><p>“It wasn’t too terrible,” Freddie said. “Once you stopped vomiting, Brian and I got the glass out of your hip. I think it would’ve been much more painful if we left it until now.”</p><p>“Oh did you?” Roger’s hand covered the gauze absentmindedly. He smiled quick, hoping to look grateful, thankful even. Trying not to show how much he was focused on the fact that Brian and Freddie had sat with a torch and tweezers hovering over his exposed body to try and patch it up while he was none the wiser. “Is it bad under this gauze?”</p><p>Freddie shook his head. “There was one spot that was pretty deep but I doubt it needs stitches, the rest is all shallow.”</p><p>“Mm,” Roger said, wincing at how much it stung to move in any direction. “When’s the bus leave?”</p><p>“We’ve got,” Freddie checked the alarm clock to Roger’s left. Roger knew any attempt to look over his shoulder would just agitate his hip, his bruised shoulders, “another two hours.” Roger nodded thoughtfully, trying to remember what hour the bus was set to leave, trying to use that to decipher what time it was. “And don’t worry, I told the crew and everyone you got into a horrible fight. Your split lip’ll really sell that.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Roger said with an awkward laugh. It didn’t feel right to laugh about it, it wasn’t funny, but what else was he supposed to do?</p><p>“Are you sure you’re up for it, though?”</p><p>“For the bus?” Roger said. “What’s wrong with it, why wouldn’t I be?”</p><p>“I meant the show,” Freddie said.</p><p>“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” it did, “it won’t interfere with my drumming,” it would. “Dunno how much of a backing vocalist I’ll make though.”</p><p>“Rog,” Freddie said with a gentle, almost condescending laugh. He reached out toward the bed, rested a hand on Roger’s leg until Roger eased it off, “you’re hurt, you can take a break from work to—to process that—”</p><p>“What’s there to process?” Roger spat. “I’m not hurt, I <em>was</em> hurt. And not even that bad—nothing fucking happened, I actually got lucky,” he added, his voice shaking around the words, around the realisation how lucky he got, the thought that no matter how much fear jolted through him when he recalled the night before, that had somehow been far from the worst. “I don’t need a paid vacation because I got bruised up.” His words were sharp but not loud, and his breathing came in a little faster when he was done. Freddie just stared back, blank but clearly thinking hard about his response in a way he normally would never bother to do, not with Roger.</p><p>As much as he might want to revel in the comfort of Freddie being willing to treat this whole issue like it’d turned Roger’s world on it’s head, what good would that do anyone? It was better, Roger was sure, to just get on with it. Nothing happened. Down to it’s bare bones, the night had been one of accidental drug use and a few minutes of fear in an alley that ended safe in bed with Freddie watching over him. Hardly a horror story. No matter how terrifying those minutes had been.</p><p>“If you’re not bothered then,” Freddie sighed, “then I won’t insist you be bothered, but we can talk if you want—”</p><p>“Thanks but I’d rather not,” Roger said with another laugh hoping quite desperately to mask the tension in the room.</p><p>“Alright,” Freddie’s tone was calm and soft. He stared at Roger again like he was a caged animal being set before him to study. Like his reactions and responses were predictable by nature and Freddie was waiting for each preset emotion to play itself out.</p><p>“I should pack,” Roger snapped. He stood with all the authority he could, which wasn’t much. His legs were still a bit uncooperative.</p><p>“Need help?” Freddie said, not moving from his spot when Roger headed for the door.</p><p>“No,” Roger replied.</p><p>What did he know about it?</p><p>Roger unlocked his hotel room, the key still lodged in his pocket, and threw the door open. Despite the stereotype, he wasn’t one to trash rooms. They couldn’t afford it, and more importantly, no one had been in his room. He’d dropped his luggage off, played a show, then spent the night bleeding on Freddie’s floor and sleeping in his bed.</p><p>Wasn’t much to pack away either, he hadn’t unpacked except to fish out the shirt he wanted to wear on stage the night before. Everything else was still folded neatly, or close to neatly. He could remember doing it in the city before. In a spare minute he’d rearranged his clothes that were all starting to wrinkle. Freddie ironed with the cheap hotel-supplied iron, giving Roger tips on how to avoid such a ‘disaster’ as he called it, in the future.</p><p>Roger plucked a shirt off the top of the stack in his suitcase. Sure enough, wrinkle free. It made him smirk. Made him think about how different he felt only one day prior. How different he looked too. Bruised and bloodied and anxious now. Anxiety that didn’t have a place. His stomach was in knots thinking of what might’ve happened. What decidedly did not happen. His hands were shaking, his knees buckling at the thought of his luck. Why should he feel so sick over what hadn’t happened. Why couldn’t he feel relief in knowing he was okay.</p><p>He didn’t have time for that, he knew he’d get over it soon.</p><p>The more pressing anxiety wasn’t the more cosmic thoughts about how close he’d been to a much different outcome, or even the strange lingering fear he felt, like he was still trapped in that alley. No the more pressing anxiety was how the fuck he could show his face in the hotel lobby.</p><p>A girl in Truro, when Roger was sixteen, got in a similar way. Police knew, which meant the mums knew. Roger, and his friends, knew something was wrong when she missed two or three days of school on end. His mother told him he ought to be especially kind to her since many of the religious neighbours weren’t inclined towards kindness for that sort. His mother also told him not to tell a soul what he knew. Though it seemed, when he walked into school the next morning, that everyone had the same secret conversation with their mother as they all treated that girl like a royal family member, all pretending not to notice her newly snapped wrist in a fresh cast. And no matter how consciously he understood it all, deep inside him, she had changed in his eyes.</p><p>She wasn’t weaker or lesser, but she was different. She’d introduced him to a reality he hadn’t expected to get so close to and it changed who she was. Before her, he only knew of attacks of that nature in an abstract sense, like murder. But she brought it to school with her.</p><p>Roger wondered how he’d know if the same happened to him. If Brian and John, even Freddie, would provide him kind words and offers to lend him an ear, all the while looking at him like he’d changed everything about himself. He wondered if his old classmate could tell that under his kindness and his insistence that nothing had changed, she wasn’t who she’d been before, not to him anyway. If she did, she never showed it. But if she didn’t, Roger may not be able to tell either. May be forever changed in the eyes of his three closest friends and have no say in the matter at all.</p><p>He unbuttoned the shirt that clung to his sweaty skin, noticed how it was stained with blood, with bile, and turned the shower on. Threw his clothes into the warm water, avoiding his reflection as each layer flopped into the bath. Once his clothes saturated in the bath, Roger jumped in with them and stood under the hot spray of water. The bruises on his back from falling, the soreness in his arm from being bent back nearly to the point of dislocation, the stinging cuts on his torso from the glass, it all eased under the spray. It gave him some relief too. Maybe he’d let his mind wander too far, maybe this wouldn’t be an issue, maybe it’d all wash off in the shower.</p><p>The sellotape on his stomach curled up in the water and steam. Roger reached down to his hip to peel it off. He knew what was underneath hurt like hell, but he didn’t expect it to be so…</p><p>“Ew,” he muttered under his breath. It wasn’t a cut, it was practically a hole just left of his hip, in the soft skin of his belly. Much deeper than the scrapes on his face, or the scratches on his palms and around his ribs. He prodded it, light, with two finger tips. It felt like a gash had been taken out, and stung horribly at the slightest contact. He winced and felt, oddly, grateful to have been so numb the night before when he thought it’d been a little scratch.</p><p>Though it did make him question how well he’d be drumming that night. The steam helped his voice. The water helped his aches and pains, but the gash in his skin didn’t look like much would cure it. He limped his way out of the shower, smeared his hand across the foggy mirror, and eyed the wound as he stretched and moved, gauging if it would worsen with his usual frantic motion. It seemed to hold up alright, no matter how bad it hurt to move.</p><p>He patched it up with gauze and some well-placed plasters, and hoped that would do <em>something</em> to make it feel less like a fresh stab wound. Getting on his hands and knees, ringing out the water from his bloodied clothes that lined the bathtub, didn’t exactly help the gash feel much better. But he had to get used to it. If he couldn’t endure that odd soreness, that horrible stinging then, with minimal motion in his bathroom, he’d never play the show that night.</p><p>He used his blowdryer on his clothes, kept his mind in the room and on the task at hand. Never letting it wander from him. Not back to the night before, not out into the uncertain future. For right then he could stay <em>right then.</em> Nothing wrong except some wet clothes, nothing to worry about except drying them in time to pack.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>He dragged his bag into the hall, each lift of it pure agony that he grumbled his way through. He thought he might disguise the bulge of his bandage with a loose shirt, which worked, and thought his usual sunglasses might cover the bruising on his face, a bit anyway. But not only did they not distract from his purple nose or his bashed up cheek, they instead aggravated both and left him with nothing to hide behind.</p><p>So once his hotel door slammed closed, he grit his teeth and put on a brave face. Anything to insist that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened. That yes, his cheek was torn up, his nose looked a hair’s width away from a fracture, and he had an open wound in his side, but that was part of being a rock and roller, surely. They didn’t have to focus on how it happened, didn’t have to think about it. Maybe if he kept that facade up long enough, he’d never have to worry about how he might change in their view.</p><p>The girl, back in Truro, had cried at lunch her first day back. Roger remembered that all too well. Remember how the other girls rushed after her when she tore her way to the girls’ room. He remembered how awkward it been to be left with the other boys, all unsure what they were meant to do, how uncomfortable it’d been when she came up and insisted, despite her red eyes, nothing was wrong.</p><p>Roger wouldn’t do that. He had an advantage over her in that he wasn’t nearly as hurt as her. He hoped that meant the reaction from his friends wouldn’t be as severe either. Maybe since they all knew that, in the end, nothing had actually happened, they wouldn’t feel a need to treat him like he might shatter, to have nothing to do with him outside of asking how he was coping.</p><p>He sighed in relief when he got in the elevator and no one joined him. Relief at the solitude mostly because it allowed him a moment to suck in air deeper and more pained than in the hall. His side still aching like the wound it was. When the doors opened again he was back to his collected self, though his suitcase was practically dragging behind him as he couldn’t find the strength to push past the pain to lift it.</p><p>“There he is!” their road manager shouted when Roger came into view. He waved with gritted teeth and tried a smile, but the scrapes on his cheek stung when he did. He stood with Brian, John, Freddie, and two roadies, but once they had eyes on Roger the roadies and manager fled to the bus.</p><p>“We thought you weren’t coming,” John said with a laugh.</p><p>“Lost track of time,” Roger said with a painful grin in return, trying to hide how scratchy his voice still was. Anything to prove it didn’t matter as much as they thought it did. “Where’re your bags?”</p><p>“We loaded them up ten odd minutes ago,” Freddie said. “I was about to come get you, I thought you might’ve fallen back asleep.”</p><p>“No, just, packing,” Roger said. Silence followed. All three of them staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Something on my face?” he said with a snicker.</p><p>“Don’t stare,” Freddie hissed at Brian and John.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Roger snapped. He didn’t need anyone treating him like some circus freak. “It looks bad,” his eye flitted between Brian and John’s as he reassured, “but it doesn’t hurt that much.”</p><p>“It does <em>look</em> pretty bad though,” John said with a wince. At least he wasn’t pretending for Roger’s sake that it looked manageable. Maybe there was some good news in John’s wincing.</p><p>“Did you lose your voice?” Brian said, his words carrying a sorry tone like losing his voice was the worst possible thing that could’ve happened to him.</p><p>“It sounds much better than it did this morning,” Freddie said.</p><p>“Steam,” Roger replied. He pressed his lips together tight but relaxed them when they stung from the split. He hesitated on his words, breathed in a strange breath before awkwardly adding, “not the worst I’ve looked after a drunk night though.”</p><p>No one responded. Instead they all stared on with looks of either discomfort in the case of John, or pity in the cases of Brian and Freddie. Maybe this wasn’t the sort of thing he could joke about, not just yet anyway. Didn’t seem fair to be denied that though. Why should he have to play up to his friends’ sensibilities when he was the…not victim. Definitely not a victim. Victim implied all sorts and maybe, if John hadn’t found him, he’d be a victim, but as it stood he was just the loser in a fight. Nothing heavy about losing a fight, nothing anxiety inducing about losing a fight.</p><p>“Alright well,” Roger said mostly to cut the silence, “guess we better go.”</p><p>He got a few mumbles in reply, all accompanied by sad eyes that he chose to ignore. He heaved his suitcase a few inches off the ground and started towards the front door, pretending he didn’t notice the way no one followed him. Roger only hoped the conversation they were all having without him was about how surprisingly well he was doing, how he seemed so perfectly fine and put together that they really didn’t need to waste any time worrying, that they’d all overreacted the night before. But how likely was that.</p><p>The outside air was cold and crisp enough to shock him, to make him tense up a bit as he scanned the lot for their tour bus. All the way across, all the way at the fucking back of the carpark, it sat running and waiting for Roger’s bag and the rest of the band. He’d have to cross the whole fucking lot with his bag in tow and his side probably freshly bleeding under the bandages.</p><p>Part of the act, he figured. He heaved his bag up an inch or two and held his breath when he started towards the bus. He made it a solid seven short strides before a hand covered his own on the luggage handle. The touch made him drop the bag without a second thought and recoil with a pounding heart.</p><p>“Sorry,” John said, “didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”</p><p>“I—” Roger stared at the bag, now resting on the ground with John’s hand wrapped around it’s handle, and wondered why he’d dropped it, why he’d recoiled, “I didn’t hear you come out.” He laughed when John stared at him expectantly. Like they both might find it funny how a mere graze of his hand sent enough panic through him to nearly have him bolting away from his own luggage. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he said with a shaking voice. He reached down, reached for his bag, still in John’s hand.</p><p>“Er—” John said, jerking his bag away, “I think I better carry it.”</p><p>Roger nearly forgot John had taken the bag from him, too focused on the horrible sensation of their hands barely pressed together. “I can,” he took in a deep breath trying to quiet his pounding heart, “I can carry my own fucking bag—it’s not such a melodrama that—”</p><p>“You were limping,” John interrupted.</p><p>“So what?” Roger said. Though he hadn’t noticed the limp he wouldn’t let on that it was a surprise to him.</p><p>“So I think this bag’s too heavy for you and that hole in your stomach,” John said with an awkward smirk.</p><p>He was right. And something about how candid he’d been in saying why he was right put Roger at ease. He didn’t skirt the issue or treat it like it needed padding before it could be spoken about. “Okay, fine.” Roger conceded. John picked his bag up and walked at his side at Roger’s considerably slower than normal pace.</p><p>There were few times he noticed John’s age and relative youth. Normally, despite the six year span of the four of them, they all felt sixteen in Roger’s head. But there was a sense of uselessness having John carry his bag for him. His little brother in most respects had to save him, had to help him carry his fucking bag to the bus like he was an overnight invalid. There wasn’t much he could say to the contrary. He <em>couldn’t</em> carry his bag, and John <em>had</em> seen him at his worst, there were no secrets anymore.</p><p>And despite that, John didn’t look at him like he was a leper, the way Roger looked at his old classmate.</p><p>“Hey er,” Roger croaked. He crossed his arms tight over his chest, “thanks for everything.”</p><p>“It’s not heavy,” John said.</p><p>“I meant er,” Roger kept his eyes on the road in his silence, then looked up to John to gauge whether or not he really had to spell it out.</p><p>“Oh,” John muttered with a tense jaw, “are we—do you want to talk about it?”</p><p>“No—no,” Roger laughed, waving his hands a bit before crossing them over his chest again, “no I just wanted to say thanks.”</p><p>“I didn’t really do anything,” John said with a shrug. “Brian’s the one that wanted to check on you I just happened to find you. Didn’t even do much then.”</p><p>“Oh…well,” Roger sighed, trying to find a way to explain that he wasn’t exactly thanking John for finding him or shooing the man off so much as he was for treating him like a person once he had, “still. Thanks for doing that. And—we don’t have to talk about it.”</p><p>“I—I didn’t mean we couldn’t,” John said with that same nervous lilt he always got when he and Freddie disagreed on something and he knew he’d lose, “if you want to talk then I’m…I don’t know if I’ll be very wise—”</p><p>“I don’t need to talk,” Roger laughed with a strange urgency. “You found me in the nick of time, there’s genuinely nothing to talk about.”</p><p>John whipped around to meet his eyes, his expression turned up in confusion, bordering on bafflement. Roger said nothing then, knowing John would be too gun shy to try and bridge the gap and add in his own two cents about how Roger ought to feel.</p><p>“You know you should’ve seen Freddie when I woke up,” Roger laughed, maybe he could drive home how normal and fine he felt by poking fun at Freddie’s concern, could convince at least John that it was unwarranted. “He was looking at me like I got bombed half to hell.”</p><p>“I bet,” John said with no humour in his voice, no attempt to reciprocate Roger’s laugh. “I don’t know how much you remember but you were in bad shape.”</p><p>“I remember most of it,” Roger said with a snap. He was the one it happened to, he knew how bad his shape had been and didn’t need anyone reminding him of it.</p><p>“I thought you might die if I’m honest,” John said with that same awkward laugh Roger’d been using all day. “You were breathing so heavy and crying—”</p><p>“I didn’t mean to cry,” Roger said uselessly.</p><p>“Freddie acted like he wasn’t scared but you kept—you’d take these breaths in to get enough air to speak and turn to Freddie and either say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘am I gonna die’,” John shivered at the memory. Roger remembered dozing off in the cab home but he hadn’t remembered that. Thankfully so. No part of him wanted to recall a time in which repeatedly asking if he might die was his chief concern. “I’m glad Freddie can look so calm during shit like that, I was dialing for the ambulance all night, hanging up before it rang. I mean it was fucking scary,” John said.</p><p>Roger didn’t know what he wanted. An apology for scaring him? Reassurance that he’d never do it again, as if it were up to him.</p><p>“Well, if you think<em> that’s</em> scary,” Roger said with a snort, “you should’ve been in that alley.”</p><p>John looked at him like he’d lost his mind and Roger looked away feeling much the same. That comment’s sole purpose was breaking the tension, undercutting John’s leftover anxieties and all it’d done was expose Roger’s own. The last few yards to the bus were silent, Roger’s arms still crossed tight over his chest like the cold might infect him. He muttered a quiet ‘thank you’ when John headed toward the baggage hold, though he didn’t stick around to help him load it, he knew he was dead weight and didn’t care to linger.</p><p>Normally he sat wherever he first laid eyes on but today he gravitated to the back. To the last row of regular seats before their ‘living area’ as Freddie called it, began. After two seats got broken through thanks to a drunken roadie, they pulled the rows out and stuffed a cardtable back there, threw a couple of chairs in as well and tied them to the bus seats nearest them for ‘stability’ in the even of a crash.</p><p>Roger read somewhere once about the Stones, or maybe it was the Who, or maybe it was the Beatles, or shit, maybe someone else entirely, but he knew whoever it was had a tour bus that was fully converted. He remembered the picture in the magazine of a booth and a bolted-in table at the back, beds up front. As he settled into the back of their bus, he wondered if they’d ever get an upgrade like that.</p><p>His seat, so far in the back, seemed to put anyone off to sitting with him. Though he still held his breath when anyone got too close. Then got annoyed with himself for holding his breath. He knew this wasn’t his usual behaviour and knew it must look strange to everyone to see him with his face bashed up, hiding away at the back of the bus, but the idea of sitting up front and chatting away like nothing happened was too much to consider, at least right then. So he avoided eye contact and hoped that would deter anyone from sitting by him. He could practically feel them all staring at his purple nose and his bloodied cheek but held his breath none of the crew would try and ask him about it.</p><p>They all settled in soon enough though. Freddie up front entertaining the crew as they set off. Normally he wasn’t so chatty and Roger could only assume his extroversion was a ploy to let Roger have a moments peace in their cramped bus. He silently thanked him for it and tried to get comfortable in his seat. He needed sleep. Not drugged up unconsciousness but real sleep. Of course, each time he shut his eyes he felt like a sitting duck. For who, he didn’t know. He knew each roadie, each tech but still felt oddly wary of any movement. Someone walking down the aisle would have him sitting bolt upright in a panic before settling back in. What could they possibly need, why couldn’t they just sit still for the fucking ride.</p><p>The next time heavy footfalls boomed down the aisle, sending shocks of panic through Roger, he considered shouting that, considered yelling at whoever it was to just sit the fuck down for the remaining forty odd minutes of the trip. But when he opened his eyes it wasn’t a roadie rifling through a bag, it was Brian, standing in the aisle by the empty seat next to Roger, looking at him with an awkward smile.</p><p>“Can I sit?”</p><p>Roger eyed him for a second and nodded. Brian shuffled in, sat in the open seat and apologised when his foot caught on Roger’s trouser leg.</p><p>“So,” Roger said, tugging his trouser leg away from Brian’s ridiculous shoes, “did you want something or do they not want to sit with you?”</p><p>Brian laughed an insincere laugh. “I—yeah, I know you probably want to be alone I just…” he sighed, “I’m sure everyone’s offered to talk about it—”</p><p>“We don’t—we don’t need to talk—<em>I</em> don’t need to talk,” Roger said quickly.</p><p>“But if you did,” Brian said, “I’m…also available.” He ended the thought with a grin, a sincere one this time. Brian’s usual anxiety, fear he’d misspoken, was clear in the way the smile faded, then returned, like he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.</p><p>“Okay,” Roger said flatly. It was a kind gesture, sure, but it didn’t feel so kind for everyone to assume he’d be torn to shreds by an incident that hadn’t happened. He didn’t want to thank anyone for their offers to lend an ear and give any credence to that line of thinking that told them Roger was some <em>other</em> now, he’d been broken into a new being that they had to treat with kid gloves and sympathy until eventually they forgot how they used to speak to him. “I don’t need to talk though.”</p><p>“Well, if you did—”</p><p>“I don’t,” Roger snapped with a laugh meant to disguise his anger. “What’s so hard to believe about that?”</p><p>“It’s not hard to believe,” Brian said, though it didn’t sound like he meant it, “I just know I would be a little shaken up.”</p><p>“Well I’m not you,” Roger said, “I’m fine. Now, please, leave me be, I’m trying to get a little more sleep in before we get there.”</p><p>“More sleep?” Brian cocked his head in concern that Roger didn’t have time for.</p><p>“Didn’t sleep well last night.”</p><p>“Oh,” Brian nodded thoughtfully, “sorry I just figured—”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter,” Roger said, settling back in his seat, crossing his arms and closing his eyes as he rested against the window.</p><p>“Well—alright, I’ll leave you to it.”</p><p>Roger opened his eyes just a crack when he felt Brian shift to stand, when a strange pang of anxiety stung him. “Wait,” he said sharp enough to stop him.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>Roger stared straight ahead then closed his eyes again. That bit of weight in the seat next to him, his thin presence, it was a barrier. A blanket between him and the constant movement of the roadies and the unknowns coming to strike in his sleep. He didn’t need protecting, not anywhere, especially not on their tour bus. He knew that consciously. But he also knew he’d sleep better if he had it. “You can sit back here if you like.”</p><p>Brian said nothing. Roger held his breath for a moment waiting for a reply or his slow absence. But he stayed, in silence, he stayed. And Roger slept.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>John carried Roger’s bag without asking, carted it off the bus for him without a word and Roger could only mutter an embarrassed ‘thank you’ when he set it down by Roger’s hotel room door. From there it was a mad dash to the venue, they only barely made it after their bus took the wrong turn off on the highway and added an hour to their trip. On a good day, Roger hated mistakes like that.</p><p>Things like wrong turns or fucked up hotel reservations or a misprint on the start time. Anything that rushed them to start the show set him on edge. He had a particular routine, a particular way of getting himself ready for an audience. It included a lot of pacing, fiddling with his hair, beating about with his sticks, and exactly one shot of whiskey, and absolutely zero sprints through the backs of concert halls. And on a good day he’d be panting into the dressing room mirror cursing whatever made them late.</p><p>But as far as days went, this was one of Roger’s worst. So the frantic energy helped distract from all he carried with him into the show. He didn’t have time to worry about how he’d play, how he’d even move on the kit that night. Couldn’t worry about anything except pulling his stage clothes on before the lights went up.</p><p>“Be careful!” Roger screamed as Freddie’s fingers spread pale foundation across his nose.</p><p>“I’m doing my best, darling,” he replied gently.</p><p>“It’s not like I’m front and center—” Roger said with an antsy tinge to his words. Part of him was sure no one in the audience could or would notice his scraped cheek or his bruised nose, but most of him was saying that just as an excuse to stop Freddie fussing with it, agitating it. Thankfully, in Freddie’s eyes, his split lip was both undisguisable and vaguely reminiscent of lipstick, at least from afar.</p><p>“Roger,” Freddie sucked his teeth, “this is visible from space, I’m just trying to tone it down.”</p><p>Roger grit his teeth when Freddie’s fingers pressed against his bruised nose again. The cold foundation provided a small amount of relief before the white hot pain came back.</p><p>Thankfully, it didn’t have to look good. Roger was the drummer. His makeup didn’t need to be precise or even pleasing it just had to cover the obvious discolouration that, if Roger was honest with himself, was definitely visible from across a room. Hell, it might be visible from space just like Freddie said. In the end it turned out less like foundation and more like cake frosting but it covered the bruise to an extent. And he preferred that. He’d rather not have anyone snapping photos or asking how it’d happened. He’d rather everyone, including the audience, forget this whole thing happened.</p><p>There was only a minute, maybe even less, for Roger to let the makeup sink in and hopefully take hold on his skin, before they were hurried out and scolded for being late as if the entire crew hadn’t been on that very late bus <em>together</em>. Roger clutched his sticks tight in one hand and sucked in sharp breaths with each step.</p><p>It hurt to walk, but he didn’t have to strut around on stage he had to sit. He could sit for an hour and a bit. He’d be okay to sit for an hour. His wave to the audience was forced, his smile even more so, and when he sat on his stool, centered his weight on it, he found it to be no more of a relief than walking. Each movement of his right foot agitated the gash in his stomach and, he discovered via a quick warm up, it was pure agony to reach his far floor tom.</p><p>The night before he’d spent the show trying to get everyone’s attention. So much energy, electricity, real showmanship went into each move he made, and now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to muscle through the basics. But what good was if he couldn’t do that. What good was he if a fight in an alley put him out of a fucking job.</p><p>He didn’t sing. He popped up once or twice for a harmony but his rough voice paired with the clear pain lacing it had Brian and John turning back to check on him. He knew he must sound horrible if <em>John</em> was looking at him like he was not only off beat but off key. Eventually, when Freddie ascended the drum risers, and mouthed ‘don’t’ in between lyrics, Roger took the hint and focused his energy on keeping the beat.</p><p>Brian wasn’t one to keep on beat without a click or Roger there. If he fell behind with just Brian it may go unnoticed. But John could tell Roger was going slower and tried to meet him halfway with his bassline, tried to bridge the gap to keep the rhythm section in time with Freddie whose internal metronome was about as polished and precise as Roger’s. He couldn’t be fooled into thinking this slowed up pace was their norm. No matter how bad he wanted to fix it, wanted to speed up, his body wouldn’t. The more he forced it the more rigid he became, the more piercing and incapacitating the pain in his side became. He’d never been more excited, more relieved to know that the end of a show was near. He used whatever he had left to beat his bass drum and crash his cymbals and wondered if he could walk off stage without limping, without crying either.</p><p>He grinned dumbly at the roadie behind his kit when he stood and held his breath for the impact of the few steps it took to get down off the risers. Above all else, he didn’t want to move too slow or too uneven, didn’t want to give off any indication he was in pain. As if he’d be able to fool anyone after such a shit performance.</p><p>“Hold still,” said Freddie, a cottonwool pad in one hand, the other on top of Roger’s head, trying to steady him. Somehow wiping what remained of the foundation off hurt more than putting it on.</p><p>“How bad was my voice?” Roger said between winces.</p><p>“You sounded like you just had your tonsils out,” John said quickly. Freddie turned to scold him but the most he could muster up was a glare.</p><p>“It was fine darling just a little—” Freddie began.</p><p>“Don’t sugarcoat it,” he said as he reached up to grab Freddie’s wrist and jerk him away when he pressed much too hard on Roger’s bruises. “I know the bruises are bad, I know I sound bad, and before anyone says otherwise, I know I was too slow.”</p><p>Freddie’s hand on top of Roger’s head lightened up, scratched his scalp gently and tucked his hair behind his ear while a look of pure pity splashed across his face. Being pitied was the first step in being seen as lesser. Less of a person, less of a man in their eyes because of something that never even happened. Last thing he needed was fucking pity for playing a shite set.</p><p>“Next show’ll be better,” Roger said with a bite, easing Freddie’s hand off him. “I’m not bothered,” he added, not entirely convincing himself or anyone else, “this shit just needs to heal.”</p><p>“Not bothered?” Brian said as he switched out his long flowing <em>creation</em> he wore on stage for the button-up he’d worn into the venue.</p><p>“I mean—it hurts,” Roger said, “but that’s all. You all don’t have to stare at me like I’m a burn victim or something—they just sting when you touch them,” he said pointedly to Freddie. “But if I rest my voice it ought to be back in shape, the rest of me with it, it’s not the end of the world.”</p><p>“We haven’t been looking at you like you’re a burn victim,” Freddie said, a bit petulant. Roger shrugged it off, not willing to get into an argument about it, he’d already addressed the elephant in the room much more directly than he wanted to. He took the cottonwool pad from Freddie and leant in close to the mirror to dab away at the remainder of the pale foundation. Doing his best to ignore the silence from everyone behind him, and the looks he knew they were shooting him</p><p>“Alright,” John cleared his throat, “so how’s about dinner?”</p><p>“I want one of those Chicago pizzas,” Freddie said with a grin.</p><p>“Isn’t it basically just a slice of cake?” Brian said with a fake gag.</p><p>“Pizza cake!” Freddie beamed.</p><p>“I thought pizza cake was lasagna,” John said.</p><p>“There’s no noodles in a pizza you fucking lunatic,” Freddie scoffed, as if it were the dumbest thing John could’ve said.</p><p>“I’m positive somewhere in Italy theres a pizzamonger putting spaghetti dead center,” John replied with confidence.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be allowed in public,” Freddie added with a sigh.</p><p>“So pizza,” interrupted Brian, “we’re having pizza.”</p><p>“Yes, pizza,” John agreed. “And then what?”</p><p>Roger paused the cottonwool’s gentle but painful glide over his skin when a beat of silence smacked him in the back. He glanced in their direction through the mirror, caught their eyes for a moment before they all averted them. Not quickly, not as if they didn’t want Roger knowing they’d stared, but in a more solemn way, more guilt behind it.</p><p>“I think I might do well with a night in,” Freddie said.</p><p>“Fuck’s sake,” laughed Roger. A fake and aggressive laugh that made them all jump. He turned in his seat, trying to keep up his blasé facade. “Don’t skip any clubs on my account—we’re finally back in a big city, may as well make use of it.”</p><p>“You up for it?” asked Freddie, looking unconvinced and Roger, he was sure, looked unconvincing.</p><p>“Well,” Roger shrugged, his eyes watering from wiping his foundation off, “maybe not tonight,” he added with a laugh, “think I better ice this or,” he prodded the bruise on his nose, “do something to fade it before I try for any clubs. But don’t let me stop your fun.”</p><p>His tone was casual, off-hand, but he knew they all felt the force behind his words. He wasn’t going to be coddled by the three of them like he was some helpless child. Maybe he didn’t want to spend a night in a club getting gawked at and asked what happened to his nose, to his cheek, maybe he didn’t want to have to try and find a comfortable way to sit and stand while his side throbbed in pain. But that didn’t mean everyone’s nights had to be shut off, that they had to stay holed up with Roger like he was on the brink of death. No. He was a little worse for wear, but not damaged.</p><p>“If…you’re sure,” Freddie cocked his head in sympathy. Sympathy and pity Roger had no interest in.</p><p>“I’m sure,” he snapped.</p><p>A tough silence followed, one that none of them seemed to know how to chew their way out of. One that was finally broken by a roadie telling them the car, singular, was ready for them.</p><p>Roger tightened his muscles, stiffened his lip, and tried to walk in pace with the others, tried not to lag behind too far, though he was a good few steps in back of them. At least he wasn’t limping, at least he had the fortitude to power through the horrible stinging and aching in his side. He held in the strangled sigh of relief when he could finally sit down in the cramped backseat of the car and hoped no one noticed the way he shifted forward and grit his teeth with each bump in the road.</p><p>But with each jerk of the brakes, each pothole, each red light, Roger writhed in pain in a way that made him sure he couldn’t spend another hour or two pretending he was fine, pretending the gash in his side didn’t make him want to down a bottle of tranquilisers until it healed. And he really couldn’t do it while also trying to eat, each painful movement made his stomach turn, made him sure he’d never feel well enough to eat again.</p><p>“Rog, you alright?” John said from the rear-facing seat. When the roadie mentioned they’d rented them a car with rear facing seats, Roger pictured something long and luxurious, spacious and well-upholstered. What he got was his legs slotted together with John’s while Freddie at his side put his legs across Brian’s lap, giving him what little legroom he had. “You’re sweating bullets.”</p><p>“No I’m not,” he wiped his forehead before anyone could look and see what John was talking about. “But er,” he coughed, “maybe I’ll skip dinner.”</p><p>“You feeling alright?” Brian said with big sad eyes.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Roger snapped.</p><p>“Don’t bite his head off,” said Freddie.</p><p>“I’m not biting anyone’s head off,” Roger laughed a bit awkwardly. “I’m fine, I just don’t have much of an appetite.”</p><p>“Not even for pizza?” John said with the same sad eyes as Brian.</p><p>“No, not even for pizza,” Roger deadpanned. “Can the driver drop me by the hotel?”</p><p>Freddie waited a beat then shouted, “well? can you?” towards the front of the car. The only response they got was a laugh from the gruff man driving them and the sound of his blinker turning on.</p><p>When they rounded the corner of their hotel block, Roger hopped out before he had to hear any more offers from anyone to stay back. It took most of his composure to jump out like nothing was wrong, to wave goodbye, and to hurry to the hotel’s revolving door. Each step agony, each movement felt like it might be his last. There was some relief when he got inside and could freely walk at a snail’s pace and clutch his side.</p><p>How odd, he thought, that he should be putting on airs only for those he knew best. That the whole hotel lobby and patrons were allowed to watch him limp his way to the elevators but his three closest friends weren’t even allowed to know he was in pain. Of course, he wasn’t trusting the strangers in the lobby not to see him as a wounded animal in need of care, he was trusting them not to view him in any light other than <em>maybe</em> an odd fellow-stranger wandering through the lobby.</p><p>He smacked the elevator’s door close button and leant back against the mirror on the back wall. His mind drifted briefly as he glanced out into the lobby full of people who weren’t looking twice. He imagined how much easier it’d be if he could be a stranger to everyone, to Freddie, Brian, and John, to the whole crew. Just for a little while. Just until he felt better. Just until he was sure no one would look at him as nothing but a violated sob story. He pressed the door close button once more.</p><p>He straightened up, much to his body’s dismay, when a man walked on with him, muttered a ‘thank you’. Roger didn’t mention he’d actually hit door close rather than open, hoping to keep the man away but it’d be a short ride. Roger hit twelve, the man hit fourteen. He rolled his eyes at that. American superstition that totally omitted thirteen in hotels. He’d always wanted to ask why people on the fourteenth floor felt secure. On a better day he might’ve asked the man that question, made small talk with him and poked fun at his culture’s obsession with omens.</p><p>Instead he was staring straight ahead at his warped reflection in the metal of the elevator doors, staring at the man’s reflection too, noticing in the reflection, sensing through his periphery, that the man was looking at him. Over and over, then a long stare that he hadn’t broken since the elevator passed the fifth floor.</p><p>Roger grit his teeth and wondered how he’d found himself cornered again. Again. Fucking again. He could hardly walk with the gash in his side, running off was out of the question, fighting back was out of the question, and he hadn’t even been drugged this time. He swore to himself it’d never happen again and one fucking night later he was stuck.</p><p>“What are you fucking staring at?” Roger snapped, turning to him, meeting his eyes and watching them avert as soon as he had. Any confidence to speak came from the resignation of knowing he was at his mercy.</p><p>“Sorry—I don’t mean to,” the man said. His accent was thick and specific though Roger didn’t know any dialects well enough to pin it down, “but your nose…”</p><p>“Oh,” he hadn’t even considered his purple nose might’ve been the reason for the laser-like stares, “a fight.”</p><p>“I really don’t mean to stare,” the man repeated.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Roger said. Why had his mind jumped right to that. He’d been alone in elevators thousands of times before with strange men who stared at his clothes, his hair, his girlish face with judgmental looks and muttered words of disapproval. He’d never been bothered by them, never thought twice, but now he was assuming the worst.</p><p><em>Is this how it’s gonna be</em>, he thought. One close shave and he was scared of being alone with a stranger who was staring at the bruise the size of a saucer on Roger’s face? Scared and jumpy like the man might strike at any moment. The man in question being thin, wiry even, weak and at least ten years his senior. He held his briefcase in front of himself like he was embarrassed to let it swing to his side. How could Roger be afraid of someone like that, someone who looked like their wrist might snap if it lifted over twenty pounds. Then again, he’d figured the same about the man in the alley, pegged him for a weakling and ended up…</p><p>“Do I know you from somewhere?” the man asked, eyeing Roger intently, trying hard to see past the bruise. “Does your dad work at a firm around here or somethin’?”</p><p>“A firm?” Roger cocked his head.</p><p>“Maybe not, you don’t sound local,” the man laughed.</p><p>“Er, I’m in a band?” Roger offered. Normally he was more excited to remind people where they’d seen his glowing face. <em>On the cover of our brand new record, available in-store worldwide.</em> The sales pitch wasn’t coming to him.</p><p>“English band I guess,” the man said.</p><p>“Right,” Roger confirmed. “Queen.”</p><p>“Yeah, the queen…” the man replied. “Nice lady.”</p><p>“What—No, the band’s called Queen,” he corrected.</p><p>“Oh—oh, I knew I knew you,” he said, wagging his finger, “my niece has your poster.”</p><p>“Does she?” Roger could feel an autograph coming on. It felt unkind to refuse autographs and photos, he’d always gone out of his way to provide them but with his stomach crying out in pain the way it was he didn’t feel like lingering in a hotel hallway while a stranger found a pen to scribble on a napkin. Maybe if he showed him the wound he could go back to his room guilt-free.</p><p>The man either didn’t have the confidence to ask for one, or he knew better than to ask a man with a bruised and scraped face to wait in a hall while he opened his briefcase and found a pen and paper. Either way their only conversation past that point was Roger clarifying he wasn’t the bassist and he hadn’t met John Lennon. Tedious conversation that ended with fake exchanges of goodnights when the elevator stopped on Roger’s floor. Tedious conversation he was glad to be having.</p><p>Nothing happened but his adrenaline pumped like he’d made a narrow escape. He hurried to his room like he’d been followed and slammed the door like he was keeping someone out. Though he knew he wasn’t. He knew his room was safe and so was the hotel, the city, the country. One chance encounter with the wrong sort didn’t mean anything. Not if he didn’t want it to. So why didn’t his body agree, why didn’t his panicked mind agree. Why did a few minutes alone with a stranger make him so terrifyingly aware of his vulnerabilities, why did it convince him he was in danger.</p><p>“Nothing happened,” he said out loud, hoping his instincts, his body might get the message. Nothing happened to him, he didn’t need an uncontrolled fearful response as if it did.</p><p>He made sure he was locked in securely before he kicked his shoes off and limped his way towards the bed. There was no relief in sitting though. No point in lounging on his bed like it might relax him. He heaved himself up, grabbed a sample bottle of whiskey and headed for the bathroom. He turned the shower on as hot as he could, he’d need the steam for his voice. While he waited for the room to fog up he painstakingly peeled his clothes off. Holding his breath and wincing as he went. Half of him wanting to go slow and stay steady and the other half wanting to do it quick and get it over with.</p><p>He inspected his cuts and scrapes in the mirror. Most of his chest was cut up in some way. Skinned from the harsh landing on the ground or cut widespread and shallow from the shattered glass. Either way it wasn’t pretty. But the worst one loomed in the soft skin above his hip and underneath a bandage. He could only hope the night of drumming hadn’t made it worse.</p><p>The bandage peeled off easily after so much sweat, and now steam, got in between the adhesive and Roger’s skin. He ripped it off with only a slight pinch and stared at the holdeleft behind. It wasn’t bleeding. That was good, he figured. It looked like it might be bruising on the edges, or at least his capillaries had broken around the edges. It looked swollen too. He could only hope a shower might help it.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>He stood under the water, breathing the steam in deep, for longer than he remembered. He’d lathered up his cuts and the big gash in his stomach with soap and rinsed it clean and hoped it’d heal soon. But then he stayed in the water, waiting for it to heal maybe. He’d feel much better when it did, he was sure. He wouldn’t be so jumpy and weak, he’d be back to his usual self just as soon as the bruises faded, as soon as his hip healed over like it’d never been there. And maybe staying under the hot water would make that happen just a bit quicker.</p><p>Though he’d never find out. A loud thump made him pause, shut the water off and hold his breath. Then another thump. Roger fumbled out of the shower, wrapped the robe off the back of the door around himself, held his breath and heard a third thump. He tried not to pay any mind to the way his hand shook around the bathroom doorknob. When he cracked it open the steam and warmth from the shower flooded out and the muffled thumping noise became a clear knock.</p><p>“Roger—you don’t have to let me in but are you alright?” Brian’s voice said on the other side of the door, accompanied by two more knocks.</p><p>“Brian?” Roger called.</p><p>“Y—yes,” Brian replied.</p><p>How long was he in the shower? He checked the alarm clock by his bed but it only read eleven. He rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth. If they’d all come back this early it was his fault. They’d come to check on him, felt bad leaving him at the hotel like he was their collective toddler they had to watch after. Roger grumbled his way to the door, unlocked the bolt and the chain and flung the door open.</p><p>Brian pulled back a knock and jumped like he hadn’t expected Roger to open the door. He looked him up and down, then refused to look at him at all. “Were you in the shower?” He said, his eyes on some spot far behind Roger, occasionally drifting back to his eyes but never staying there long enough.</p><p>“What was your first guess?” Roger let his wet hair hang in his face.</p><p>“Well I,” Brian bent down, picked up a takeaway box Roger hadn’t noticed, “brought you some food back, I thought you might end up being hungry.”</p><p>Roger hadn’t really acquired the taste Americans had for leftovers from restaurants. He hadn’t even really got his appetite back. “Where’s everyone else?”</p><p>“Oh er—club downtown,” Brian said.</p><p>“You didn’t go with?” He’d specifically told them he was fine, he didn’t need catering to and Brian had taken it upon himself to bring Roger dinner like he was so sickly he couldn’t feed himself anymore.</p><p>“I just…” he limply held the food out for Roger, “thought you might be hungry.” His eyes were downcast, staring at the food to avoid looking at Roger.</p><p>Roger sighed. “Thanks I guess—but I didn’t want to ruin your night—I’m fine, I really am.”</p><p>“You didn’t ruin my night,” Brian said with a confused smirk, finally meeting Roger’s eyes, “it’s no fun without you.”</p><p>Roger offered up a half smile in return and stood aside to let Brian in. He obviously hadn’t been expecting an invite inside judging by the way he tripped over his own feet getting there. Roger locked the doors back up and strode up to him. He stood awkwardly dead center of the room, unsure where to put the food down considering the only furniture was a dresser with a broken telly on top, a tiny desk, and the bed. Roger made the decision for him by taking the pizza box and hopping up on his bed, he patted the spot next to him for Brian.</p><p>He struggled to get comfortable, crossing and uncrossing his legs while Brian explained what the pizza looked like before the long trip in the cab back to the hotel. In the end, no position helped his wound, so he sat crosslegged to match Brian and hoped it wasn’t obvious how much it hurt to stay that way.</p><p>“Did Fred and John know you were coming back here?” Roger asked.</p><p>“Er, no, I told them I had a headache,” Brian said. “If I told them they’d come back with me out of guilt, I think that would’ve just pissed you off.”</p><p>“You thought right,” Roger said as he tore a bite from the entirely too thick slice of pizza. “God it’s like eating a loaf of bread.”</p><p>“I thought so too but it grows on you,” Brian said with a grin in Roger’s direction. Roger grinned back weakly, his stomach begging him not to eat anything. He’d only had the meager breakfast Freddie provided him but as far as his body was concerned that was more than enough. But he swallowed the bite and got a wider grin in response from Brian. “Good right?”</p><p>“It’s okay,” said Roger through gritted teeth. Then a cough when it sent shocks of pain through him like it’d done all night. One wrong move and he was doubled over, or at least, his body wanted him to be doubled over while he fought the urge and sweated himself upright.</p><p>“How bad’s it hurt?” Brian said.</p><p>“How bad’s what hurt?” Roger croaked out.</p><p>“It looked bad last night but has it healed any?”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Roger snapped out of habit, his hand protectively wrapping around his middle like Brian might see through his robe, see how not-fine his wound really was.</p><p>“I’m only asking because Fred and I didn’t do a great job patching it up—”</p><p>“I redid the bandage this morning, it’s fine,” he snapped again, wishing Brian’s usual meekness would overpower his stubbornness and get him to drop this line of questioning. Talking about the pizza was tedious but less painful than this.</p><p>“What about when you showered?”</p><p>“I—I’ll redo it in a second—”</p><p>“Where’s the first aid kit,” Brian said.</p><p>“I don’t need a nurse,” Roger spat.</p><p>“But you do need a bandage,” Brian stood and wandered into the bathroom. Roger knew he couldn’t move fast enough to stop his rummaging and if slapping some gauze and plasters on while they ate would get Brian to drop it, he’d do it. “They don’t have much,” said Brian, holding a roll of gauze and medical tape and a bottle of something, “but it’s better equipped than the last hotel.”</p><p>“What’s that?” Roger said, jerking his chin towards the bottle in Brian’s hands.</p><p>“Disinfectant,” Brian said as he held the bottle up for Roger to read the enormous ‘Kills Germs’ label on the front. “I think it’s rubbing alcohol.”</p><p>Rubbing alcohol, in a wound that size. Roger shivered at the thought. His pain tolerance wasn’t low, in fact, he figured it was quite high these days. He’d certainly been thrown around enough for his girlish face. But after a night of pain radiation from that wound and attacking his whole body, he wasn’t eager to essentially throw lighter fluid on the fire. “I washed it with soap, that’s enough.”</p><p>“What if it gets infected?” Brian doused a cottonwool pad in the stuff.</p><p>“It won’t,” was Roger’s only defense. Though a wad of gauze soaking up his sweat while also patching up his wound didn’t exactly sound sanitary. “Besides, it’s probably not safe to use that shit on a gash this big.”</p><p>Brian cocked his head, sat back by Roger’s side. “How big is it?”</p><p>“You saw it last night.”</p><p>“It was such a mess though,” Brian said.</p><p>“Well it…” Roger hesitated in showing him, only because he knew it looked bad. It looked like a dog took a bite out of his stomach and had a feeling Brian would flinch at the sight of it, report him to the crew, and get their tour cancelled, or at least force them to postpone some shows until it healed. The last thing Roger needed was time without his drums. He didn’t need to think or ruminate on what happened, he needed to put the pedal down and power through the recovery of this minor, very minor injury. Once he was healed he’d be right as rain. “It looks worse than it feels.”</p><p>That was a lie, it felt like hell. But Brian didn’t have to know that. He tugged at the edge of his robe, exposed the beat up skin of his chest and finally the gash in his side. Brian said nothing, didn’t react in the slightest. Roger expected some sort of hiss or a mutter of ‘that looks bad’. But he was silent.</p><p>He reached out with the soaked cottonwool, his eyes focused in tightly on the wound, “hold your breath.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Brian didn’t answer, just pressed hard on his wound with the alcohol. Roger sucked in a sharp breath of air, doing his best not to react to the pain and failing as he grunted through his tight exhale then yelped when Brian pressed in a bit harder, let the alcohol really douse him.</p><p>“It’s over! It’s over!” Brian said as he quickly replaced the cottonwool with gauze and pressed down against his skin, wrapped his hand around his hip to hold the gauze steady, to abate some of the stinging. “Not so bad right?” Brian said with a grin.</p><p>Roger panted and scoffed. “Doctors don’t pour alcohol into open wounds do they?”</p><p>“You’d know better than me,” Brian said with a shrug. “This’ll work, even if it’s primitive.” He reached with his free hand for the tape. Much better than the sellotape Roger had been working with before, strong still than the plasters. Brian held the roll and gestured for Roger to tear him a piece. With Roger’s help, he secured the gauze, bit by bit, but kept pressing, kept holding on, until he was smoothing down the last piece of tape across his skin. His thumbs pressed gently into him, made sure it all stuck, then ran over the tape again, on each edge, rehashing the securing he’d already done while Roger looked on, stared blindly at his focused gaze, wondering when it would break.</p><p>“I think it’s on there,” Roger said in a low voice.</p><p>“Right!” Brian squeaked, pulling his hand away like Roger might’ve swatted at it. “Sorry,” he added quietly.</p><p>Brian’s tendency to squirm, to blush and change the subject when he got too close to Roger, was sweet in a way. But never something Roger liked to dwell on, something he looked away from at the first sign. But right then he looked. He watched intently as Brian’s cheeks bloomed red and his eyes stared at the floor, and wondered why he was embarrassed.</p><p>He hoped beyond hope that it wasn’t a symptom of Roger having totally changed in Brian’s eyes. Hoped he hadn’t been gawking at his wound like Roger’d had his humanity and dignity drained out of him the night before and was now only worthy of pitying looks and overly-cautious, overly-kind, and entirely surface level care. Though it did feel odd to be so desperately hoping the case was Brian’s feelings for him, the ones he tried hard to pretend he didn’t know about, were intact. There was no polite way to ask it. After years of ignoring the elephant in the room he couldn’t well blurt out a <em>‘would you still be up for it or did that scuffle in the alley sterilise me in your eyes’</em>. Particularly because he wanted to know only for selfish reasons. Just to pad his own bruised ego and reassure himself of his own high-standing in Brian’s eyes.</p><p>“Thanks for patching it,” Roger said finally, his gaze drifting from Brian’s bright cheeks to his eyes.</p><p>“Sure,” Brian smirked, still red. He sighed and added, “I can leave if you want.”</p><p>“You can stay too.”</p><p>“I know I’m underfoot,” Brian said with a guilty smirk. “But thanks for humouring me, and for eating something.”</p><p>“You’re not underfoot,” Roger assured. “Turn the telly on, there’s bound to be something.” Though he’d been reluctant to surrender his time alone initially, now he’d rather not find himself unguarded in a hotel room. It was a silly fear, equivalent to running to his mother’s room after a nightmare. But he could disguise it with a little telly.</p><p>Brian flicked it on to some game show Roger didn’t know the name of. It was either that or static. He and Brian spent awhile guessing the answers. Roger eventually laid out, said something about his neck hurting though they both knew it was his side that hurt. Brian sat up by the headboard next to him, and Roger swore under his breath when Brian beat him to the following three answers. After a fourth missed answer he let his eyes slip closed and muttered responses as he drifted off to the sound of Brian gloating about his answer being correct.</p><p></p><div>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay so... yes it's been awhile, sorry about that haha! I had other things that took precedent but this is 10k words and  hopefully that makes up for it &lt;33 Please comment if you enjoy this chapter and hopefully I haven't lost too many of you in the long wait for the update &lt;33</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</div><p>No matter what he did, his legs wouldn’t move, his arms went limp, his voice was almost entirely inaudible as he fell against the cold exterior of the building. The man’s lips dragged over his, then his tongue. Roger didn’t know what the taste was but he knew he couldn’t forget it. He tried shoving him, tried kicking him, but no part of his body wanted to cooperate. The man’s cock was hot, almost burning, against his hip. No way for Roger to get away from it.</p><p>The man hooked his leg around Roger’s, forced him to the ground and bent his arm behind his back. Tight. Nearly dislocating it. Roger huffed, cried against the concrete, wished he had the strength to move, to scream, to beg for it to all stop. He couldn’t get the energy up to look back, but he could feel the man’s hand run down his hip, around him to the open button of his fly. Up and down his confused cock, and around his back for one quick tug at his trousers. A tug that jerked Roger back. Pulled him in hard against the man.</p><p>And woke him up.</p><p>He shot up, gulping down air like he hadn’t had any all night, and looked around the room frantically. No one was in there. No one ever was. He knew the door was locked and he was safely alone. But he still checked. If only to help his heart rate slow down a little quicker.</p><p>Once he was sure he was alone he fell back against his pillow, caught his breath, and stared at the ceiling. Five nights now he’d had the same dream. The first night it scared him, woke him in the dead of night and left him glancing around his pitch black hotel room with tears in his eyes, searching in a sleepy, groggy state for an intruder. But now he was just angry. The man wasn’t worth the real estate his subconscious was giving him.</p><p>He was a nobody. A nameless man in a crowd who tried and failed to get to Roger in a way that would never happen again. There was no chance of Roger taking a drink off a stranger anymore, so what was his subconscious trying to warn him about? What was the point in repeating that night every time he had the audacity to fall asleep.</p><p>No matter how many times he woke up with that question on his mind, it was never answered. So he didn’t bother lingering in bed pondering it. He trudged on sleepy legs to the bathroom, cranked the shower on as hot as it would allow which, at their cheap hotel, was still just a fraction above lukewarm. While he waited for the boiler to kick in he inspected the damage.</p><p>The few days had done wonders for the shallow scratching across his chest from the smaller shards of glass. The slightly deeper cuts on his cheek were starting to heal over as well, though, he knew it’d be another week or so before they were gone. The bruise across the bridge of his nose was still discoloured but less on the purple side and more on the blue, headed toward healing over, just like the purple splotch on the high point of his cheek that had shrunk just a bit.</p><p>The gash in his side was, well, still a gash. The first few days, changing the bandaging and gauze had been so painful he’d had to take shot from the minibar beforehand. But now he ripped the old gauze off with only a wince and inspected what was left behind. Still red and tender, not quite on the far side of healing yet, but not worse. Certainly healed enough that he could walk and drum with very little pain, though carrying his own bags still felt like an unimaginable feat of strength.</p><p>But that was all okay.</p><p>It didn’t have to be fixed right away, it just had to be bearable, and it was bearable. It was mild enough that he could pretend it was an inconvenience, a funny faux pas that they had to cover before shows. Something totally separate from himself rather than the lingering evidence of a horrible misfortune. He preferred thinking of it like that. Like this was all typical wear and tear from a drunken night out, scratches and bruises that didn’t need exact explanations, just par for the course.</p><p>Though, no matter how many times he did it, it never felt routine or unimportant when he was bandaging his side. Spreading on the disinfectant he swore to Freddie he’d use, flinching at his own touch and wincing at the strange stinging sensation he felt whenever he moved, eyeing the strange and uneven way his skin was trying to heal, it made his eyes water and left him totally incapable of stopping it.</p><p>He’d feel better once it was gone, he knew it. Once that painful, mangled slash in his side was gone and healed he’d never have to think of any of this again. It’d be in the past, it’d be healed. But for now, the red and purple slash in his side stole any abstraction away from him. When it was covered and suppressed with painkillers, he could think about that night in it’s most distant form. ‘A stranger pinned me, John scared him off, I split my lip throwing up the drink he gave me’. Abstract, vague interpretations of the night that left out the worst of it. The wound reminded him of the gory details, the glimpses of the man’s exposed body, the way he tasted when he forced his tongue against Roger’s, the cold, numbing feeling of the concrete scraping his cheek, the way he hadn’t been able to scream or cry, like he was caught in a nightmare. Those things weren’t so easy to gloss over and forget when the wound was exposed and aching.</p><p>So he kept it covered with gauze whenever he could. He wiped his red rimmed eyed, cleared his throat. Pretending, for his empty hotel room, that he didn’t get a horrible shiver of past panic and fear up his spine when he had to look at and attend to the hole in his hip. He dragged his bag on the floor behind him and held his breath before opening his door.</p><p>“Oh—finally—” said a voice down the hall as soon as Roger’s door opened.</p><p>“Am I late?” Roger said through a cough. His voice a little off from having not been used other than to bite back tears. He dragged his bag out behind him, let his door slam and peered down the hall. John and their tour manager congregated by the elevators. He kept his bag dragging behind him, hoping to look nonchalant rather than hurt, and headed their way.</p><p>“Not late,” John said, “but not early.”</p><p>“When have I been anything but?” Roger said with a wink and a hidden grimace as he heaved his bag along the hotel’s carpet and held his breath.</p><p>“Those bruises are on the mend, nearly anyway,” their manager said, pinching the bridge of his own nose to demonstrate to Roger he was in fact gawking at his purple bruises.</p><p>“Er—yeah, it,” Roger ran a hand through his hair, grazing the tender spots, lingering bruising on his scalp that he hadn’t really noticed until he tried shampooing his hair, “it’s looking better, not feeling much better though.”</p><p>“I’ve got socked in the nose once or twice,” he said with a guffaw and a clap on Roger’s shoulder that he ducked his way out of before any lingering contact could be made. “A doctor once told me that was the worst sort of pain there is.”</p><p>“A broken nose?” John said with a cocked head. The elevator doors dinged open, their manager hopped on first, John went next, taking Roger’s bag in one hand and his own in the other, not saying a word while he did so. “There’s no way that’s the worst pain.”</p><p>“Well,” their manager rolled his eyes, “worse within reason. There’s so many nerve endings in your nose.”</p><p>“That just doesn’t sound right,” John said quietly. If they made more small talk, Roger didn’t hear it. It took him longer to ‘warm up’ so to speak. Usually it was an hour or so before he’d totally shaken off the dream from the night before. He was getting quicker at it, by minutes at the most. He’d gone from two hours to an hour and forty five. But that had to be because of the wounds. A painful reminder every waking moment meant his mind healed slower too. Once the bruises faded, he’d be right as rain and not just pretending to be.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>The bus pulled in just in time for their sound check. Their bags were kept locked up in the bus, too late to be taken back to the hotel. Roger couldn’t remember the name of the venue, and didn’t have a chance to glance at it on his way in. Felt like everyone was moving a little quicker to make up for the hour they lost when the bus had to meander through a pileup on the highway.</p><p>There was manic energy, and there was stress. Mania felt like adrenaline, excitement even. It added to the shows, made them all eager to play. While stress, well, stress just created more and more mistakes and less and less ability to fix them. Working with one less hour for their soundcheck was stress. The venue they were playing in was much bigger than their last one. An anomaly in the tour, a crowd they had to prove they could impress and captivate, and they were off to a piss poor start.</p><p>The roadies assembled Roger’s drums, he waited behind his kit, absently tapping away on the drums while they leveled out the microphones on the amps. Roger took pride in having his kit mixed before it ever got to the microphones. He was always in total control of how he sounded, it wasn’t left up to some contraption and configuration the way Brian had his. Of course they were nowhere near equivalent but it was still entertaining to make some comment about Brian hiding his playing in layers of pedals and amps just to see what he did.</p><p>He found himself on the edge of making a joke like that a few times. Each time catching his breath in his throat and retreating back to his resting position behind the kit. It wasn’t shyness, it wasn’t a fear of getting Brian too cross, it was the way the entire crew of the band and of the venue buzzed around the stage. Faceless men running to and fro, shouting orders at each other for things that had to be done for the pyrotechnics, the lights, the mics, all of it. He sucked in air as quickly but calmly as he could.</p><p>A grown man had no business getting nervous at the sight of other men doing their job. No matter how many there were, no matter how fast they moved behind his kit, how close they inadvertently got to him while trying to adjust his mics and his cymbals. He had no reason to get flustered when all he had to do was sit and give thumbs ups when he felt his toms, his cymbals were in perfect position and bang on them every now and then to make sure the mics got the best sound.</p><p>“Is this too far into the periphery?” one man said, his voice cutting through the annoying din of Brian playing one note over and over to test the echo.</p><p>Roger looked up at him, a little breathless, a little dizzy, and eyed the china cymbal being set up almost directly at his side. “Er, a bit more forward, yeah,” Roger panted.</p><p>“D’you need…water or?” the roadie said as he awkwardly shifted the china cymbal forward.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Roger said. He reached up to try and rub his eyes, to ground himself for a moment, give himself a bit of darkness when he couldn’t have solitude. But the bruises prevented him touching his face. He froze mid-motion and slowly brought his hands back down in defeat. He knew the roadie was watching his every move, waiting for him to pass out, probably. So he kept his eyes forward and focused on the roadies and crew members running around in the orchestra pit. His eyes not actually focused on them, but indirectly staring there as he breathed in deep and reminded himself, on a loop, that he was fine.</p><p>Then a figure caught his eye. Forced his attention back into the moment, forced his gaze to follow it. A thin, wiry man, ninety pounds soaking wet and familiar in a way that made Roger flinch, made him desperate for <em>something.</em></p><p>“Fuck,” Roger croaked. His voice sounded like he’d been gut punched and he honestly felt like he may as well have been. Each vivid memory of that night, each nightmare spent reliving the most intimate and terrifying details, paled in comparison to how icy his blood ran at the sight of him there, standing in the orchestra pit without a care in the world.</p><p>“You alright?” the roadie asked again.</p><p>No. No. Far from alright, leagues away from it, and unable to communicate that, unable to communicate anything. He just sat staring at the man as he seemingly argued with one of their roadies. His stomach churned, his body begged him to run, but just like he’d been the last time he saw him, he was numb. Unable to get up and run, unable even to just sit and scream at the top of his lungs, only now there was no real reason for it. He wasn’t drugged. But his body stayed frozen.</p><p>He didn’t look quite like how Roger remembered though. He was thin, wiry, with the same hair colour. But his hair was longer by a few inches. His face had a familiar shape, but, the more Roger stared the more he saw his nose had changed almost entirely. And when the man hopped up on stage to help with John’s bass, Roger heard him speak. His voice was low and warm not tinny and venomous.</p><p>“Fuck,” Roger huffed once again. Then stood on shaky legs. “I need some air.”</p><p>“Oh—okay,” the roadie said, “but can I put the indicator tape down for this cymbal?”</p><p>“Sure, whatever,” Roger said as he hurriedly hopped off the drum riser and awkwardly grinned at the crew member adjusting John’s bass, then at John, then Freddie, as he headed straight for the edge of the stage. He jumped down and ignored the shock of pain in his ankle when he landed too hard, and kept on towards the exit.</p><p>He burst into the entrance hall of the venue. His hands shook when he searched for his cigarettes but calmed slowly once he got it lit. He made his way to the glass doors that led to the cold air outside. Hurrying towards them like his life depended on getting out there, but once his hand was on the handle he hesitated. Couldn’t help be reminded of the last time he needed air, and where that had landed him.</p><p>He backed off the door, glanced over his shoulder, looking around the lobby for somewhere to collect himself. Pacing seemed a little too anxious and unsettled. God forbid he get caught looking as bad as he felt. Instead of taking laps of the lobby, he meandered to one of the many cushioned benches and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs, begging it to take the fucking edge off.</p><p>Seeings things. That’s where he’d got to, he was fucking imagining things. One glance at a rather plain looking but thin man and he was set to sprint back to England.</p><p>Only he wasn’t.</p><p>One glimpse of who he thought had attacked him and he was motionless, voiceless. The fuck did that say about him? He took another long drag, rested his forearms on his thighs and stared at the floor, stared at the carpet as the ash from his cigarette slowly melted the polyester.</p><p>He hadn’t even called for help.</p><p>In his head, if he saw the man again he’d start the fight he couldn’t finish that night. He’d overpower him, show him that without the poison he’d been fed he was scrappy, and willing to fight back. He imagined himself breaking the man’s nose, imagined stomping on him while he writhed on the ground, powerless under him. But what had he done when the opportunity presented itself? He said ‘fuck’ twice behind his drums and struggled to breathe much less move.</p><p>He tapped his cigarette, pressed the sole of his shoe against the ash, not wanting it to leave too visible of a mark in the carpet.</p><p>The only refuge he’d had to distract himself from his nightmares, the only thing that let him push through the vivid memories of the night, was the thought that even if he tried it again, if anyone tried it again, he would win the fight. A pit of dread sat heavy in his chest knowing now that that wasn’t true.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Roger looked up, looked left down the length of the front hall and saw Brian at the main set of swinging doors. He waved awkwardly and headed towards Roger at a pace that was too slow to be a jog, too fast to be a walk.</p><p>“Hey,” Roger replied. He took another deep drag off his cigarette. It wasn’t uncommon for Brian to pluck them out of his mouth and stomp them out with no warning. On and on about how bad they were for his lungs.</p><p>“Hey,” Brian repeated as he closed in. He stood by Roger’s side, hovering near the empty space on the bench next to him but stayed stood up.</p><p>“Did you need something?” said Roger.</p><p>“I just,” Brian whipped around gestured to the door he’d come out of, “I thought you might need something since you…hurried out like that.”</p><p>“You didn’t bring me anything,” Roger said with a smirk.</p><p>“Well—the crew said the only water bottles are behind the concession stands out here so,” he shrugged, “I can go get you one of those if you like?”</p><p>“Thanks,” Roger said with an exhausted laugh, “but I’m alright.” He took another drag, and waited patiently for the speech about how bad it was for him, waited for the passive aggressive comments about an early grave, and for the inevitable scuffle over the lit cigarette. But none came.</p><p>“The roadie said you looked like you might get sick and wanted some air,” Brian said.</p><p>“Well, yeah,” Roger shrugged. What was so suspect about wanting a little air?</p><p>“But you’re inside,” Brian added.</p><p>“How very observant of you,” Roger said as he crushed more of the ash into the carpet fibres.</p><p>“You’re sure you don’t want me to steal a water bottle for you?”</p><p>“I’m positive.”</p><p>Brian didn’t respond, but didn’t take his eyes off Roger either. His gaze bore into him until eventually Roger looked back down at the carpet. He didn’t know what it was Brian wanted from him but he was in no mood to give anything to anyone.</p><p>“You can talk to me if you want,” Brian said quietly.</p><p>Roger kept his gaze on the floor straight ahead and clenched his jaw. “And what would I need to talk about?”</p><p>“Don’t get upset,” Brian sighed.</p><p>“I’m not fucking upset,” Roger said, undermining the point he was trying to make. He didn’t know why exactly Brian’s offer to lend an ear made him so tense and angry but it did. He didn’t need his fucking help and he certainly didn’t need him <em>thinking</em> he needed his help. He looked up at him with a fake grin and laugh to match. “I’m fine. My nose hurts, sure, but I’m not even limping anymore, I’m right as rain.”</p><p>“I wasn’t offering to let you talk about your bruises,” Brian said.</p><p>“Well good,” Roger said, dragging the words out and squinting at Brian.</p><p>Brian stared back at him. Aloof on the surface, as he always appeared to be, but Roger could see that glint of ‘I know better than you’ in his eye, and dreaded what might follow it. “You know, after what happened, it’s normal to get overwhelmed by a bunch of strange men buzzing around you.”</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes, but didn’t like how squarely Brian had hit the nail on the head. “Why can’t you just accept that I’m fine?” Roger scoffed. “I came out here because I was getting antsy—too much caffeine or something. It’s not because I’m terrified of men now.” He took the last drag off his cigarette and stomped it out in the carpet. “I don’t really even have a right to be effected, you know? Nothing ended up happening. Some poor sods actually get hurt with stuff like that.”</p><p>“The…the…the,” Brian stammered, awkwardly searching for words, “the actual—the crime not being committed doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt.”</p><p>“What?” Roger shook his head. “Of course it does. If I didn’t get hurt, I didn’t get hurt. Plain as that.”</p><p>“Yes but,” Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. Roger rolled his eyes waiting to hear his explanation. As per usual, Brian felt he was more qualified to assess Roger’s feelings than Roger was. How typical. “Rog—it’s not a weakness to talk to about it.”</p><p>“But there’s no material here,” Roger said with much less confidence. He knew there was days worth of material that wouldn’t leave his fucking head. He could still smell the cologne the man wore, the horrible scratchy texture of his jacket when it pressed against Roger’s bare skin, could still feel the terrifying heat of him, pressing into Roger’s hip. But those memories would fade with the bruises. Why drag them out to be examined just so his closest friends could look at him like damaged goods. “You took me home, you know I was fine.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t describe you as fine that night,” Brian said coldly. “Roger, if someone you knew had been jumped by someone with a knife, <em>nearly</em> got stabbed but not quite, would you say ‘nothing’ happened to them?”</p><p>Roger sat silent for a moment. Gritting his teeth while he chewed over Brian’s words. Then jumped to his feet. “Nothing worth talking about.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t unusual for them to walk off stage feeling like they’d failed the audience. They could always be better and typically when they got off stage that was the sentiment, ‘it could’ve been better’. But that night felt more like ‘it couldn’t have been worse’. And they all knew who was to blame.</p><p>Roger, sat at the back of his kit, flinching at the roadies queued up behind him, hiding in his shadow to make sure if something did go wrong they could jump in and repair it. Of course they couldn’t repair Roger’s paranoia, couldn’t make his playing any better than the shit it was. Off tempo, fast then slow, he lost track of the one during his supposed solo and counted Brian back in far too late. Roger tended to feel some consolation in knowing that for the most part the audience couldn’t tell their mistakes from their improvisations and on most nights a slip up could go unnoticed. But tonight he knew the audience had winced at his new found lack of skill.</p><p>Soon as they were backstage, waiting on the cars waiting on the roadies, holed up in the dressing room, Roger kicked the vanity’s chair over and fell into the couch that was shoved in the corner.</p><p>“I’ll say,” Freddie sighed, nudging the upturned chair with his toe.</p><p>“I don’t know what the fuck happened,” Roger pinched the bridge of his nose, and winced at the pain it caused before jerking his hand away from his face.</p><p>“Maybe you need a break?” John offered.</p><p>“Fuck’s sake—I don’t need a fucking break,” Roger spat.</p><p>“Was it the,” Freddie patted his hip, miming Roger’s wound.</p><p>“No, that’s practically healed.” He used the term ‘healed’ loosely. The word ‘practically’ as well. “I don’t know what the fuck went wrong—I—I’m sorry—I don’t know what I—”</p><p>“Don’t start with all that,” Freddie said as he waved his hand. He flipped the chair back onto it’s legs and sat down in it. “We’ll do better tomorrow night.”</p><p>“Sure,” Roger said. He was a perfectionist at heart and falling so below his mark ate him up. The others were perfectionists too. It was such a persistent trait among the four of them that arguments sprouted out of frustration with their human downfalls while playing their own music to tedium. And yet none of them were going to shout at him for dragging the night down? None of them wanted to get even a jab in at his expense? “Is no one going to shout at me?”</p><p>“Would you like us too?” Freddie laughed. “Why the fuck would we shout at you?”</p><p>If he declared, without question that, yes, they would shout at him if things were ‘normal’ he’d be pointing to the enormous elephant in the room he’d spent nearly a week trying to turn invisible. No sense losing the war for this battle.</p><p>“I could use a drink,” he sighed.</p><p>“I think we all could,” Brian said as he stretched his back out. The weight of his guitar strapped to his spine all night took it’s toll.</p><p>“How’s about a night just us four?” Freddie said with a wide grin. “Hotel whiskey and some Scrabble?”</p><p>“Who’s that for?” Roger spat, his voice loud and more clear than normal. Anger cutting through his usual rasp.</p><p>“For us?” Freddie said, playing coy.</p><p>“For the sake of you three?” Roger said, equally condescending.</p><p>“And you,” Freddie spat back.</p><p>“I don’t need a night in, I’m going out even if it’s alone,” Roger huffed.</p><p>“You don’t have to prove anything,” Brian said.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Roger said with his eyes locked on Brian’s.</p><p>“Okay,” Freddie held the vowel in ‘okay’ with a flutter in his voice. A common tactic of his to pull attention to himself amidst the beginnings of a fight. “Okay,” he repeated, louder this time to make sure they were both looking at him. “Rog, if you’d rather go out, we’ll go out.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said Roger, entirely insincerely. He knew Freddie’d only agreed to avoid Roger flying off the handle, placating him like a mother would to a child throwing a tantrum. However, that was probably warranted considering Roger didn’t want to go out. He’d spent the night panicked at every slight movement from the roadies he’d known for a few years now. He knew getting thrown into a loud bustling club full of total strangers wasn’t going to lift his spirits much. But he did know he <em>could</em> do it. And that’s all he needed them to know. That for all intents and purposes, nothing had changed about it. Even if that didn’t feel like the truth to himself yet, it was the truth he’d tell them, the truth that would become easier to tell once his bruises healed over.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>On the way over, they all three were making comments about how they might leave early, how it could easily be an early or more casual night for them, how they could all go back at any point and hole themselves up in a hotel room for Scrabble. Roger ignored it all, he wasn’t in the mood to be coddled and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to draw attention to it. He ignored their offers to linger at a booth for awhile, he ignored their offers to walk to the bar with him to get his drinks, ignored their offers to stay with him all night. They were quiet offers, never outright as not to hurt his pride, though they still did.</p><p>Comments of ‘oh I’m already going up to the bar, you sit tight’ were met with a terse smile and a ‘I could use the walk’. ‘Why don’t you sit and chat with me and my new friend’ was met with ‘I’d rather make my own new friends’. ‘Why don’t I go with you to make any introductions since your bruises are a bit of a shock’ was met with ‘it’s an icebreaker, I’ll be fine on my own’. Anything to prove to them all he could get back on the horse.</p><p>It left him a little worse for wear, but that was only on the outside. Nothing had <em>really</em> changed. He still loved clubs, still loved meeting the people in them, and they didn’t have to watch his back for him.</p><p>That was definitely the impression he wanted to give them. He knew it’d be the truth one day so why not pretend it was true now? Of course, easier said than done, he found. His hand shook when he slid the bartender his money and didn’t stop until it could wrap around and grip the whiskey glass he’d been given.</p><p>Crowds had always been his element. Since he was young he’d always felt so at ease with crowds, with strangers. Now he found himself fighting the urge to frantically check over his shoulder, or even to just give up and bolt out of the place. It made him wish he’d never teased Brian and John about their lack of magnetism in crowds of strangers, at least crowds that didn’t have a built in admiration for them due to their music. But, he could stomach it if only for the sake of making a point, to himself as much as the others.</p><p>To stay sane though, he needed someone to talk to, someone who didn’t know why he was so jittery. So he found a woman in a short dress looking like she’d given up on the night. Roger, who had himself given up on having any real fun as well, meandered to her side and downed his whiskey after he introduced himself.</p><p>She pointed to his split lip, his bruised nose and cheek. He told her he’d been in a fight, promised with a wink and a laugh that the other guy got lucky Roger didn’t leave him concussed. She laughed with him. It felt odd making a joke of it, even if it was just to ease the conversation. And though it was his own fault, he sound of her laughing at it stung.</p><p>“So—you said you’re the guitarist?” She grinned, hanging on his every word ever since she heard the accent.</p><p>“I’m er—I’m the drummer actually,” Roger said with a weak grin. In better times he’d be hanging on her every word too. She was pretty, thin, a little more stupid than Roger was used to but he wasn’t exactly looking for a wife. But he found himself looking through her, looking behind her, letting his eyes follow anyone who moved in his field of view rather than staying focused on her.</p><p>“Oh,” she replied, not in any way bothering to cover her disappointment. “So you just do the drumming?”</p><p>“Mhm.” How was he <em>meant</em> to respond to that? He sipped his whiskey, frantically glanced behind her head at the dark splotch of movement that caught his eye. Just a woman bending down for a fallen purse. He didn’t know if the woman talking to him was exceptionally boring or if he was exceptionally paranoid but either way she couldn’t keep his attention. He needed a good distraction for how exposed he felt with so many strangers bustling by him in such a dark room. Of course he wouldn’t admit it, but his eyes darting around the club in search of the next culprit, spoke for themselves.</p><p>“Are you like, gonna shoot this place up or something?” The woman said with an air-headed drawl.</p><p>“What?” Roger cocked his head.</p><p>“Why’re you looking around so much?” she laughed.</p><p>“Oh,” Roger was mostly sure she wouldn’t have been sharp enough to notice that. “Just keep thinking I see a friend, that’s all.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” she sounded unconvinced. Roger didn’t care if she was. “Well,” she hummed, “would you rather look for a friend or look at me?” She reached for his lapel, tugged at it then flattened her hand on his chest. It rested for a moment before Roger backed out of the touch.</p><p>Just here palm against his jacket felt overwhelming in a sense. Too much, too familiar in a way he didn’t like. The urge to run made his legs ache as he stared down at the confused woman whose pupils were blown wide with vodka.</p><p>“Er.” He kept her gaze for only a moment. The club, bustling before, was somehow now bursting with an energy he couldn’t keep up with. His eyes darted between the woman and the moving bodies at a rapid pace that left him dizzy. And each man looked suspicious, looked like him if he just glanced over them. None of them were, he knew that, but they all felt like him in the moment, like he was trapped with a bunch of his dopplegangers and God help him if he found the real one.</p><p>“You don’t look so good,” the woman said, watching Roger pant as his eyes jumped between the men in his field of view, each one more of a threat than the last. “Did you take something?”</p><p>“I need air,” was all he could get out before taking another step back from the woman, then turning and trying desperately to spot a door through the crowds of people startling him with each movement.</p><p>Each step, each bump of Roger’s shoulder, each smile his way, each crossed path, spiked his heart rate. Waves of hot anxiety washed over him, but he noticed, he wasn’t speeding up in his meandering through the crowd. In fact, each step felt like walking with cement shoes. He lost sight of the door that he hoped was either to the mens’ room or to the outside, he bumped into people he’d tried to dodge away from, and he stumbled over muttered apologies as he clumsily moved, getting more and more overwhelmed with each step.</p><p>“Hey—aren’t you the drummer?” A man said, breaking through the ringing in Roger’s ear. Roger turned to his left to see a man, no older than himself, grinning at him like he’d seen Bridgette Bardot. “You are aren’t you?”</p><p>“Er,” Roger faked a laugh, though it sounded more like a cough, “depends on which band,” he said, hoping that might be the end of it.</p><p>“Can I get a picture?” The man said as he reached for Roger’s shoulder. Roger bent his knees to avoid the man’s touch and laughed it off when he cocked his head.</p><p>“I don’t have a camera,” Roger said nonchalantly.</p><p>“Oh, I would be taking the picture,” he rummaged through his coat for whatever camera he had on him. Roger thought he might slip out while he did but he also felt fairly certain this man would have no qualms with chasing him out of the club for a photo. “Here,” he handed the camera off to one of the women behind him and got next to Roger like he belonged there. Some people were brazen enough to wrap an arm around him like they were friends, thankfully he hadn’t gone that far. But even his shoulder brushing against Roger’s made his stomach turn. The flash blinded him and lit up their corner of the club.</p><p>“Holy shit,” the woman said as the camera lowered from her eye, “is your nose broken?”</p><p>“What?” the man at Roger’s side whipped around, hoping to see the bruise in the dark.</p><p>“No, just er—fell,” Roger said over the music.</p><p>“Is your lip split?” the man reached out like he might touch it, might prod Roger’s bruised lip.</p><p>“Oi oi!” Freddie’s voice drew their attention and thankfully stopped the man’s ill-advised attempt to invade Roger’s personal space anymore. “Saw a flash go off, did I miss my closeup?”</p><p>“Hey—<em>you’re him!”</em> the man said, frantically reaching for his camera.</p><p>“I certainly am him,” Freddie said with a wink, “most American’s don’t know that though. Good eye, you’ve got.”</p><p>“Can I get a picture?” he said, signalling the woman to get ready with the camera.</p><p>“Of course, but let me have a quick word with my drummer,” Freddie said, diplomatic as ever. He put an arm across his shoulders and led Roger with a quiet ‘come along’ away from the crowds and the boom of the speakers and closer and closer to the front door.</p><p>“Thanks for that,” Roger said, trying to sound calmer than he was and not succeeding in the slightest. “He was getting ready to test my bruises out.”</p><p>“You looked nervous before that,” Freddie said as they settled in a quiet spot against the wall.</p><p>“Well,” Roger shrugged, “fans that’ll try and grab you are always bound to do something strange.”</p><p>“But you look pale,” Freddie said.</p><p>“It’s the lights in here.”</p><p>“And you look a little,” Freddie snapped his fingers, brought Roger’s attention back to him as his eyes darted through his periphery at the movement in it, “jumpy.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Roger said out of habit. Freddie just pressed his lips together tight, totally unconvinced but clearly not willing to say that outright. As much as Roger wanted to sit and convince Freddie, to traipse around the club like he used to just to prove him wrong, he knew he couldn’t. He could hardly walk the length of it without his heart pounding out of his chest and maybe there wasn’t much use in pretending he could stay the rest of the night. “I’m fine but…I might head back to the hotel—I’ve got a headache.”</p><p>“Sure, sure,” Freddie said, looking a thousand pounds lighter, “I’m tired too, we can both—”</p><p>“Fuck that,” Roger said with an exhausted laugh.</p><p>“Fuck what?”</p><p>“Fuck that!” he repeated. “I don’t fucking need you following me home like I’m a wounded fucking animal!”</p><p>“I’m not—”</p><p>“Stay fucking here! Enjoy your night, I’m fine and I’ll be fine at the hotel!”</p><p>“What’s the big fucking deal if I go home with you?!”</p><p>“If you go home, then I’m fucking staying here!” Roger said. Not the most mature argument he’d ever made but he was too on edge to really mind.</p><p>“What the fuck kind of logic is that?!” Freddie said with an exasperated waving of his hands. “You can play tough with John and Brian all you like, but I stayed up with you all night while you were waking up to vomit and crying through nightmares—I know a week hasn’t fucking healed you the way you want everyone to think it has,” Freddie said in a lower voice than before. Almost nose to nose with Roger to make sure his words stayed private.</p><p>Close enough for Roger to spit in his face when his words failed him. Freddie recoiled and wiped angrily at his cheek over and over again, scowling at Roger as he did.</p><p>“Okay—fucking—fucking go home and take some fucking downers when you get there,” Freddie said while still absently wiping his cheek. “You know I’m trying to be fucking compassionate and you’re making it so fucking difficult—”</p><p>“I don’t fucking need your compassion—”</p><p>“Go! Home!” Freddie shouted. They stood in a tense silence. They got in fights more than anyone expected. They were so similar and ended up under each other’s skin pretty easily, but mostly it faded with a few grumbled grievances and a drink. They’d never fought about something that meant anything, never shouted at each other over something more important than a stolen pair of trousers or their electricity bills back home. It felt unnatural to yell at him, felt worse to get yelled at by him. And as the silence persisted he felt like one second more and he’d apologise for it all.</p><p>But the silence was broken. Not by either of them but by the man with the camera, hurrying over to Freddie. Freddie looked like he might say something, but never did. Not to Roger. He met the man halfway, made sure he didn’t come any closer to Roger, and Roger slipped out the door without a second glance.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>The driver told him he needed petrol before he drove him back and apparently his company didn’t allow him to fuel up with customers in the car. He gave Roger the option of riding up to the station and waiting across the street for contractual purposes or waiting outside the club. He chose the club.</p><p>He pressed his back against the outside wall, not letting anyone surprise him, and took deep drags off his cigarette, being careful of anyone going in or out. Of which, there were very few. The city they were in was an average size, but it was mid-week and frankly a little early to be headed home. That was only good new to Roger. Fewer people to jump at needlessly.</p><p>It did feel silly to be jumping at all. The man who attacked him was miles away, with no way of finding him. Even if he did have a way, he’d be an idiot to show up again, especially when Roger had his wits about him and full control of his body. There was no reason to jump at every strange man that walked a little too close or lingered on him. But he still did. He jumped like it was him each time. Part of him hoped it was just the whiskey getting to him, making him paranoid. But he’d nearly ruined their show with how jumpy and paranoid he’d been while stone cold sober.</p><p>He took another deep drag off his cigarette and held it in his lungs for a few seconds.</p><p>The girl from his school had been jumpy like this too. He remembered a month or so afterwards when one of the boys jumped out from behind a door to startle her and a friend all she’d done was scream and cry. The boy got scolded by two of the girls. Roger remembered at the time thinking he’d done nothing wrong, it was a harmless scare. He remembered a week lateer, walking with her and two others. Couldn’t remember where from or where to, but she was there. And she tried to cross the road too early. Roger yanked her by her arm back onto the pavement. She screamed then too, shouted ‘don’t touch me’, and took a swing at him with her broken arm before pulling it back to her body in pain. Roger remembered feeling odd about giving that apology too. ‘Sorry I saved you from getting hit by a bus’ were his exact words before he left for home, sick of being shouted at for no reason.</p><p>It didn’t click then, that everything about her world must’ve changed. It wasn’t just that her arm was broken, it wasn’t just that she couldn’t walk home alone anymore. It wasn’t a harmless scare from a friend because her definition of the word ‘friend’ had been violated. It wasn’t a firm grip on her arm saving her from getting flattened because the last time she’d been held so tight it left bruises and kept her in a momentary hell. Roger hadn’t thought of it like that all those years ago. The only context he’d given it was that his friend was hurt, and for some reason <em>months</em> after the fact, she still couldn’t walk home alone.</p><p>Much of their remaining friendship was spent well, Roger knew that, but he also knew he never understood her after that, and never really tried to. He clung to the moments where she was normal, which became more and more frequent the longer it went, and tried hard to forget the rest. But focusing on it now, there were many times her trauma showed through, even after the cast on her arm came off. Would he end up like that? A friend kept on the sidelines because no one knew if he might burst into tears or start shouting at them?</p><p>He liked to think he had the upper hand over her. He hadn’t been hurt as bad and he was much older when it happened. He liked to think that he’d heal faster and more completely than she ever could. But she took a swing at him. When he pulled her onto the pavement she swung at him with her broken arm. That must’ve been how she broke it, Roger figured. Fighting the boy off. And when Roger gripped her too tight she didn’t hesitate to do it again. Roger didn’t take a swing at anybody. Not the man, not the lookalike either. He must not’ve had her bravery.</p><p>“Still here?”</p><p>Roger broke from his memories, happy to be back in the moment, and saw Brian hurrying out of the front door. “The er,” Roger coughed out the smoke he’d held for too long, “the driver needed to fill the car up, said to wait for him here.”</p><p>“Ah,” Brian said. “Well I’m glad I caught you before you took the car back, I don’t have enough American cash to pay for a cab I don’t think.”</p><p>“Did Freddie send you?” Roger spat.</p><p>Brian just grinned. “Not really.”</p><p>“Not really?”</p><p>Brian shrugged. “Well I was already going to head home, y’know in the next half hour or so.”</p><p>“And so what? Freddie told you I needed a babysitter and you rushed out after me?” Roger took a long, weary drag off his cigarette and began wondering for the first time in the last ten minutes, where the fuck the driver was.</p><p>“He said you might need a friend,” said Brian, a little quieter, “and since you spat in his face he figured you didn’t want him around.”</p><p>“Mm,” the guilt about that had already begun to set in but now it was taking root.</p><p>“I think he figured I was the best choice since I don’t think John’s ever really spoken about anyone’s feelings before,” Brian added with a laugh.</p><p>“Well,” he tapped the ash off his cigarette, “I hope you don’t think I’ll be talking about my feelings.”</p><p>“I don’t,” said Brian, “but it’d be good if you did.”</p><p>“It’s not an issue,” he scoffed, trying to hide how annoyed he was. Annoyed less with the pressure to open up and confide in them, and more annoyed with the fact that he hadn’t been able to keep himself composed enough to convince them there wasn’t anything to open up about.</p><p>“Why didn’t you feel well in there?” Brian spoke with his usual aloof and rather quiet tone. Sometimes that tone was as sincere as it sounded, sometimes it was covering up for Brian asking very pointed questions or making very harsh critiques of their music. Unfortunately, Roger honestly could never really tell which it was.</p><p>“I just,” he sucked in a deep breath and laughed it out, “all the people just put me on edge, ya know? Nothing big.”</p><p>“Right,” Brian said.</p><p>Roger didn’t entertain him past that and didn’t listen to Brian trying to fill the silence while they waited for the car.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>On the ride back, once Brian realised that Roger was focusing all his energy on staring out the window and admiring the city lights and stars overhead, most of his small talk was directed at the driver. Normally, Roger knew, Brian wouldn’t be keen on painful small talk with a stranger, but his attempts to make it with Roger had been so loud he felt he had to recover with the only other person in the car.</p><p>Roger tuned the chatter out and enjoyed the feeling of security he had regained. He lost it the moment they entered the venue earlier that day and hadn’t felt it again until right then. His back was firmly against the soft leather of the car. The doors were locked, the windows tinted, and even with a stranger in the car, he had Brian at his side making sure it was all above board.</p><p>He didn’t <em>need</em> a babysitter. But it felt nice having one.</p><p>He’d rather die than tell anyone that of course. It’d melt away what shreds of dignity he had left but he couldn’t say he enjoyed the feeling of stepping back out into the world and meandering through the lobby, hoping no one stopped him for another photo or something equally disorienting. When the elevators doors closed on just Brian and Roger, he breathed a sigh of relief and rested on the handrail on the back wall while Brian tried to remember which floor they were on.</p><p>“It says on the key,” Roger reminded him.</p><p>“Ah,” Brian reached into his pocket. “We’re making an extra stop on seven before we hit eight,” he added meekly.</p><p>“So do your babysitting duties end once I’m in my room or do you have to help me bathe and get dressed like I’m an invalid as well?”</p><p>“Don’t be like that,” Brian said, as if he had any right to be fed up.</p><p>“I’ll be however I like,” Roger replied.</p><p>“I’m not babysitting you.”</p><p>“Sure you’re not—”</p><p>“And what if I were? What if the only reason I came back with you was to look out for you? What would be so bad about that?”</p><p>“I don’t need it, and I don’t need you all looking at me like I can’t handle myself or like I’m some poor defenseless—”</p><p>“None of us are looking at you like that,” he interrupted.</p><p>“Then why is it a fucking event when I want to go home? Why do I need a chaperone?”</p><p>The elevator opened on seven. A woman got on and smiled politely at the two of them, inadvertently forcing them both to shut up until the doors opened on their floor, eight. Roger didn’t mind it though, he wasn’t eager to hear whatever lazy excuse Brian had lined up and powered his way down the hall to his room, not caring how far behind Brian trailed. But, even trailing behind by a few feet, he didn’t stop following him.</p><p>Roger didn’t see any point in trying to slam the door on him and force him out of his room or something equally volatile. So he unlocked his door, let it swing on the hinges, and went straight for the whiskey knowing full well Brian would follow him in. He poured out a few fingers while Brian nudged the door shut, letting it close with a politely quiet click.</p><p>“See,” Roger laughed, “you can’t tell me you’re not looking at me differently,” he sipped his whiskey, “if I had got in a normal fight or some shit, you wouldn’t feel the fucking need to follow me to my fucking room—you think I’m someone to be pitied and coddled and—” Roger began but never finished.</p><p>“I don’t think that!” Brian snapped. “You got hurt, and you scared us, all of us—especially Freddie who had to keep me and John calm the whole time. Maybe we’re overreacting by not going out or insisting someone ride in the car back with you, but do you have no compassion for why we’d do that?”</p><p>“No,” Roger laughed, “it happened to me not you. I won’t be made to feel guilty for not allowing you the time to view me like a circus freak.”</p><p>“We’re being overly cautious with how you heal because we all thought you were going to die,” Brian said. “A week ago, we thought you might die and so, yes, maybe we’ve been overprotective. But at least we’re not pretending it didn’t happen.”</p><p>“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Roger rolled his eyes.</p><p>“I think,” Brian hesitated, “I think you need to talk about it.”</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said more firmly but still not beaming with confidence. “It doesn’t have to be me—or any of us—we could get you a therapist or something—”</p><p>“This is the problem!” Roger knocked back the last of his whiskey.</p><p>“What is?“</p><p>“You all think there’s something more to be said about what happened—you think i’m holding back but I’m not!” he lied. “I feel fine, I’m fine with it all, I’m past it, why the fuck are you insisting that I sit and pry at it until I feel like shit? Why—why do<em> I</em> have to examine this whole thing when it’s just you three acting strange?”</p><p>“If you feel so fine then why did you run out of the sound check?” Brian gave Roger space to answer, and when Roger didn’t he added, “and why did you spend the whole show looking over your shoulder? Why did Freddie tell me while you were trying to escape the fucking club you looked like you might pass out?”</p><p>Roger didn’t have good answers for those, not ones he wanted Brian to hear anyway. So he clutched his empty whiskey glass tighter and did the same with his teeth. “Well—what the fuck do you want to hear about it, Brian?!”</p><p>“I don’t <em>want</em> to hear anything, I want you to let it out—”</p><p>“You wanna know how he kissed me?” Roger tossed his glass down on the floor, ignored how it bounced off the carpet by a few inches. “I’d never kissed a man, did you know that?” He unscrewed the whiskey bottle. “He was circumcised,” Roger said with a morbid laugh, “God forbid I ‘bottle up’ that gory detail.” He took a swig from the small bottle. “I’ve never seen another man hard before either. I’ll bet you knowing that is really important to how I heal,” he put hand on his heart and spoke with fake sincerity. “You wanna know how I was scared?”</p><p>“Roger, please—”</p><p>“I was scared. Shitless in fact.” He slammed the bottle down on the minibar counter. “You’ve probably never been there, but staring at some stranger’s hard cock, knowing it’s about to be inside you—that’s not the most comforting feeling in the world. Of course, it’s more comforting than him touching me. But see, Brian,” Roger took another swig, “I’ll bet you knew all of that happened.”</p><p>“I didn’t—How could I have—”</p><p>“I’ll bet if I made you tell me what you <em>thought</em> happened, that’d be it, so I don’t know why the fuck you think I’ve gotta sit here and tell it to you,” he spat. “If I want to put this whole fucking mess behind me<em> fucking let me!”</em></p><p>“I’m worried about you,” he all but shouted, looking like he’d feel guilty about raising his voice any higher. “If you can put it behind you then fine but it’s not behind you, Roger, you’re scared of every man you don’t know.”</p><p>“Fuck that—I’m not scared of men,” Roger rolled his eyes dismissively.</p><p>“You ran out of—”</p><p>“Soundcheck, I know,” he groaned. “I thought I saw him, at the club I got a little jittery around such a tightly woven crowd, so what? That doesn’t mean I’m fucking afraid of all strange men.”</p><p>“Why don’t you let a shrink decide that?”</p><p>“I’m not going to a fucking quack because you think I’ve got a fucking phobia of men,” Roger laughed but sounded as frustrated and annoyed as he was. Brian looked at him, eye full of pity, totally unconvinced. He felt like a sane man screaming at the top of his lungs that he was sane, while everyone looked on and saw his shouts as proof he was entirely mad. “I’ll prove it,” he said, reaching the end of his rope.</p><p>He strode to Brian with all the determination in the world, fueled just a bit by the whiskey in his blood, and reached for his collar. He yanked him down firmly, and didn’t hesitate when he kissed him just as firmly. Brian squeaked and almost tried to speak, but Roger didn’t let him. He kept his lips firm until Brian’s softened, then and only then did his follow suit. He held still for a second or two, making sure he’d made his point before pulling away and wiping any remnant of Brian off his lips and onto the back of his sleeve.</p><p>Brian just stared at him. Cheeks bright red, brows knitted up in a strange sort of confusion Roger couldn’t quite place, and didn’t bother placing.</p><p>“See?” he said. “If I ought to be afraid of any man it’d be you, but I’m not am I?”</p><p>Brian’s face fell, from that mixed up confusion, to a sort of sadness Roger had never seen on him before. He’d got too caught up. In his own frustrations, his own fears, his own worry of his reputation failing and he’d just thrown Brian under the bus to try and stay afloat. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t the sort to throw it in Brian’s face, wasn’t the sort to make him feel bad about it. So why had he? Was he that desperate to convince him he was fine? Desperate enough to feel a bit superior after a hellish week that he’d stomp on Brian to get there?</p><p>“Brian—I’m sorry—” Roger began.</p><p>“Fuck you!” Brian shouted with watery eyes. He turned around, marched towards the door, ignoring Roger’s muttered pleas for him to stay. “I was trying to fucking help!” he screamed with a sort of abject defeat that hurt something deep in Roger. The door slammed behind him and shook the walls in it’s wake.</p><p>There was no point going after him. Roger let his stomach churn as he locked the door behind Brian and meandered to the shower to get clean, to replace all his bandages.</p><p><em>I spat in Freddie’s face</em>, he thought on a quiet loop as he ripped his bandages off. The worst fight they’d ever gotten in had ended when Freddie went around Roger’s drumkit loosening all the lugs. Up until then, that had been the most heinous act of aggression between the two of them. He’d escalated it by a few thousand notches and why? Because after spending a night with Roger on his deathbed he was worried about him and wanted to keep him company on the ride home? Was that worth spitting in his face?</p><p>And, for no real reason, he’d taken deep offense at Brian suggesting he was jittery around men and decided to mock him for the one thing Roger knew he was most sensitive and ashamed of. Why? Because Brian dared tell him he wasn’t buying his ‘everything’s fine’ act?</p><p>He stood under the hot water, felt his skin crawl thinking of what he’d done. But in equal measures, it crawled knowing that apparently no one had been convinced that he was okay. He’d put on a brave face through the pain and paranoia for no fucking reason. He worked hard on his facade of humour and detachment and they all saw only the fear in him, saw him as a wounded animal that would never heal, one that needed special care.</p><p>The disinfectant didn’t sting so much with his mind so distracted. He was grateful for that at least. As he patched up his side, he wondered if he would be able to apologise to either of them. If he was honest with himself, he wouldn’t apologise if it meant admitting he wasn’t as fine as he claimed to be. He wanted to double down. To insist that if they were seeing him dealing with this supposed trauma poorly, if they thought he was hurt and in need of help, that was their own projection and that he was fine. That took precedent over apologising for what he’d done. Though, he did find it hard to fall asleep with the image of Brian’s crestfallen, humiliated expression burned into his brain.</p><p></p><div>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello :) ! It's been a bit, about a month! Sorry about the long wait but I promise there won't be another month between chapters here on out, not with the holidays done and dusted :) This chapter is 12.7k so hopefully that bit of length makes up for the wait &lt;3 If you enjoy this chapter please do comment &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
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<p></p></div><p>Finally.</p><p>Finally.</p><p>Roger stared at his reflection in the cheap hotel mirror, buzzing with a strange sort of excitement as he ran his fingers over the gash in his hip. Or rather, where it used to be.</p><p>It wasn’t healed just yet, the skin was still red and slippery like a wound, but it didn’t hurt when Roger grazed it with his fingers, even when he dared to press against it just a bit. It didn’t send horrible shocks of pain through his entire body. The shower steamed behind him, using up the hot water he’d been waiting on for the last ten minutes. He was too mesmerised by his reflection to care. He leant in closer, prodded the bruise across his nose. Not faded quite yet, but it didn’t make his eyes water to wrinkle his nose or touch his cheek. The sharper, smaller bruise on the highpoint of his cheekbone was a beautiful shade of yellow. No matter how hard Roger jammed his thumb against it, it never hurt. His split lip would take longer, he knew that, but he also knew he could smile now. He practiced it in the mirror. Smiling as wide as he could, slowly at first, letting the skin of his lips get accustomed to stretching, then quicker and quicker, each time delighted not to see the scab rip open.</p><p>He turned to his left, like someone might be there to congratulate him, or smile with him. But they’d all stopped checking in on him really. And he didn’t blame them.</p><p>The morning after he’d thrown his tantrums and hurt the people desperate to help him, he mumbled apologies over the breakfast table in the hotel’s restaurant. They went mostly unanswered or unacknowledged and Roger didn’t repeat them any louder. He wanted some of his dignity preserved.</p><p>Freddie, for the most part, brightened back up quickly. Roger was sure he’d never held a grudge in his life and Roger felt the same when it came to Freddie. It was hard for them to stay truly angry with each other no matter what the fight had been. That didn’t stop Freddie from having catty moments but for the most part he was willing to pretend it never happened. Brian, though, stayed quiet. Polite but not chatty, not friendly like he normally was. Given the circumstances, Roger was surprised he even shared ‘hello’s and ‘goodnight’s. That night was still blurred in his memory from the panic, from the whiskey, but often his cruelty flashed before his eyes.</p><p>It wasn’t like him, he knew it wasn’t, to torture Brian like that. To point out the obvious and tease him, humiliate him for it. His own good nature had always stopped him from saying anything. But even more than that, he liked the effect he had on Brian, liked the way he blushed and tried, so hard, to make Roger smile. Why had he ruined all that for a moment of superiority that he didn’t even deserve. If he wanted to shame Brian for his obvious feelings, he shouldn’t enjoy them so much, shouldn’t rely on Brian’s kind face and eager conversation to put him at ease at the end of every day.</p><p>He knew he didn’t deserve any of that back, Brian’s attention or care, but he wanted it. He wanted someone with him to tell him it was all over, he was all healed. Someone to remind him he was still normal.</p><p>It wasn’t within his reach. Not without apologising for what he did while he was healing. So he celebrated alone, by gazing almost lovingly at the red and battered skin on his hip, imagining the day it’d match the other side and erase any trace of what happened. He’d waited for this milestone for ages it felt like. He’d dreamt of the day he didn’t have to pretend drumming didn’t hurt or his whole face wasn’t throbbing, fantisised about walking down a hall and being healed enough that not everyone turned to stare and try and figure out what happened.</p><p>He got in the shower and stretched, reached all the way up while the hot water ran down his body. It’d been so long since he’d done that without quickly crumpling over himself when his hip ached in pain. There was a bittersweetness in being so alone in the marking of his progress, but at least there was progress. It’d taken so long for the pain to fade like this, he’d begun to wonder if it would ever happen and now it had.</p><p>Healed. He was healed and it was done. The bruises needed more time, the burst capillaries needed more time too, but that was superficial. On a deeper, more significant level, he was whole again. Unafraid of his wounds, of his reflection. Just like he’d predicted, just like he’d told himself. It <em>was</em> that easy. All that shit about having to go through and dissect each millisecond of that night, of having to sit down and have a heart to heart about it, all just as stupid as he’d thought. He needed his body to heal and his mind had followed suit and now, with more confidence than ever, he could promise everyone he didn’t need to think about it anymore, ever again. The memories could fade with the bruises.</p><p>He ran his complimentary bar of soap across his shoulders, then across his chest. Normally he had to hesitate at each juncture of ripped and cut skin from the minuscule shards of glass. Normally each caress of his fingers made him wince. But not now. Now he was back to his old self. He could run his soapy hand across his hip, not worried about the sting of the soap or the water, not worried about tearing at an important scab.</p><p>His hand moved lower then, out of curiosity. He hadn’t lingered on his cock since that night. He’d been in a lot of pain and under an incredible stress that didn’t exactly leave him eager for anything but sleep and whiskey. But maybe now he could enjoy it. His soapy hand moved up, then down, too slow to be working towards anything. He paused, waiting for it to hurt, though he didn’t know why. He pressed on, moved his hand a bit faster, held and released his breath in short bursts how he always did, closed his eyes and focused on the feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>His hand felt numb then. Numb and foreign but familiar in a way that sent shivers up his spine and made him pull away, made his eyes open in a panic. He stumbled, nearly fell but caught himself on the shower curtain. His eyes darted around the confined space of the shower, looking for something, anything. He tore the curtain back and scanned the bathroom similarly, glancing over his reflection, not recognising the panicked eyes looking back at him.</p><p><em>But I’m healed,</em> his mind screamed. His body didn’t ache and scream in pain anymore, it was his own again. How could there still be something sinister trapped within it.</p><p>He whipped the curtain closed again, let his breathing come back under his control while the water washed over him. He took the soap then, lathered it up, and scrubbed at his face. Hard and rougher than he needed to, just to feel how it didn’t hurt. Two days before the press of a makeup sponge had him wincing and asking for a break, but now he could scrub and scrub and scratch at his face and there was no pain. No pain from the bruises at least. He was better. Even if his body wasn’t sure about it yet, he was better.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“So you <em>are</em> alive,” Freddie said, half joking half annoyed, when Roger finally got himself together and made it down to the hotel’s cafe.</p><p>“I’m allowed to sleep in aren’t I?” He pulled out the empty chair at the cramped table they all sat at, across from John, Freddie on his right. As far from Brian as he could be. It was a subtle thing he almost felt silly for noticing. But the more he noticed it, the more it didn’t seem like an accident. All the ways Brian kept his distance. Sitting away from him on the bus and plane rides, dancing around the dressing room to avoid the usual quiet moments where Roger fiddled with his hair while Brian tried to do his makeup.</p><p>He couldn’t ask for them back. What would he say? <em>‘Please keep your crush on me, I like the attention’</em> didn’t exactly have a charming ring to it. Neither did<em> ‘I miss you’</em>. No matter how true they both were. His punishment for his cruelty was a newfound loneliness. The first few days of it, he was annoyed that Brian wouldn’t be caught alone with him, all to negate any chance of hearing an explanation from Roger. But he came to realise he didn’t have an explanation to give. Not a good one anyway.</p><p>“It’s a buffet,” John tapped his fork on Roger’s empty plate.</p><p>“Oh,” food was the furthest thing from his mind, “I’m alright with coffee.” Roger waited an awkward beat, his hand wrapped around his mug while the other three stared on expectantly. A few moments more and he realised he’d never poured himself any and reached for the coffeepot on the edge of the table. “Is it obvious I didn’t sleep well?”</p><p>‘Not sleeping well’ was a boring and flimsy cover he’d been rather fond of these days. <em>Oh did I flinch when someone adjusted my bass pedal? Must not be sleeping well. I know I keep staring into space, I didn’t sleep very well. I’d rather stay in tonight, I didn’t sleep well. Don’t fucking touch me, I didn’t sleep all that well.</em> He didn’t care if his excuses were believable anymore, not now that he knew everyone had always seen right through them. If anyone asked, a plague of discomfort and lack of support was sweeping the American hotel industry’s mattress supply and wreaking havoc on Roger, <em>only</em> Roger.</p><p>“How long’s the bus ride this time?” John said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.</p><p>“Four hours,” Freddie groaned. “I wish we could afford more plane tickets.”</p><p>“Isn’t it our own fault we can’t?” John hid a grin behind his mug of coffee.</p><p>“Well I don’t see <em>you</em> writing any hits,” he teased.</p><p>“I could but I wouldn’t want to eclipse you all,” John said matter-of-factly.</p><p>“Eclipse?” Roger snorted. “A two minute song about how you can’t last in bed doesn’t exactly scream musical superiority.”</p><p>“You’re so intimidated by my genius, it’s pathetic really.”</p><p>Roger grinned and rolled his eyes. He sipped the coffee he’d poured and winced at how burnt it tasted. They couldn’t afford an upgrade though.</p><p>“Well,” Brian pushed his chair out and stood, “I’ll be on the bus if anyone needs me.”</p><p>“So soon?” Freddie hiked his sleeve up to check the time.</p><p>“I’d just rather get settled,” he shrugged. The was the only explanation he offered before wandering off. Roger kept his head down, stared into his coffee like it was absolutely enthralling.</p><p>Freddie and John were both painfully aware that something was wrong. John wasn’t one to broach any topic like that, he didn’t participate in heart to hearts or conversations that went any lower than skin deep. Freddie did. Freddie had no qualms about asking a stranger something personal much less his friends. Roger still grinned when he thought back to when he and Freddie had known each other for a couple of weeks at most and on a walk from Roger’s van to the pub he said<em> ‘why did your parents divorce’</em> like it was a normal conversation starter. But with this he didn’t poke at him. There was no ‘I know something’s wrong, you may as well tell me’ conversation. Though no one had asked, Roger wouldn’t tell them. He’d betrayed Brian once, he wouldn’t do it again by opening it up to Freddie or John.</p><p>“If you’re not sleeping well maybe you ought to see a doctor?” Freddie offered, though they all knew what he meant.</p><p>“I don’t need one,” Roger said quickly. “I think I’ll be fine by the next hotel.” He would too. He thought he’d feel better when his wounds stopped hurting and he did. He’d feel better in his own skin with a few more days. No need to involve anyone but himself.</p><p>“Well…” Freddie sighed, “if you ever change your mind.”</p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>“Course not,” Freddie pushed his chair out, mumbled something about the bus, and headed that way.</p><p>Maybe he hadn’t been totally fine the night he panicked and spat in Freddie’s face, he could admit to that. Privately at least. But he didn’t care for Freddie acting as if he’d made no progress. He felt fine and Freddie could be as passive aggressive as he wanted, that wouldn’t annoy Roger into booking some electroshock.</p><p>“You need to eat,” said John.</p><p>“What?” Roger looked up a little dazed. He’d been so far in his own head thinking about what it would take to convince Freddie he was fine.</p><p>“You need to eat,” he repeated. He took a sausage off his plate and set it on Roger’s. “Eat.”</p><p>“I’m not hungry.”</p><p>“No. You’re not eating,” John corrected.</p><p>“What’re you talking about?” He spoke with a crooked smile.</p><p>“You aren’t eating,” John said, ignoring Roger’s attempted charm. “You didn’t eat last night, yesterday morning, and you’re not eating now. You need to eat.”</p><p>The fact that he’d noticed meant either his lack of appetite was becoming obvious, or John wasn’t as at ease as he claimed. Wasn’t as aloof about the whole situation as Roger had assumed. It felt like betrayal. How dare John keep a watchful eye on him. He could handle himself and didn’t need the youngest and newest member of their group looking out for him like he was a child. But if he pointed it out John would deflect, would say he just happened to notice Roger not having an appetite outside of the snacks in his hotel room. Rather than start that fight, he took a bite of the breakfast sausage John had put on his plate.</p><p>“Happy?” he said.</p><p>“Yes,” John said with a smirk. He waited for Roger to take a second bite. “So…are you okay?”</p><p>Roger huffed, let his fork fall to the plate. “I’m so sick of being asked that.”</p><p>“Well,” John shrugged, “frankly I’m sick of thinking it.”</p><p>“Then stop,” Roger said with a tense, insincere laugh. “Fucking stop worrying.”</p><p>“Why’s it such a personal offense?” John said quietly. “If I were in your shoes I wouldn’t be upset that my friends were concerned.”</p><p>Roger clenched his jaw, doing his best not to yell. “You’ve got no idea what you’d do if it were reversed. No fucking clue.”</p><p>John stared blankly for a moment, then nodded in a silent defeat. “I just feel like I should be doing something, that’s all.”</p><p>“Why would you need to do something?”</p><p>John pushed around the food on his plate with his fork, entirely aimlessly. “I think I’d need help, I dunno,” he said with is eyes downcast. “After all that, it feels strange to just…forget it.”</p><p>It was hard to be angry with that reasoning, no matter how badly he wanted to be indignant and superior about it. It was easier, much easier, to get annoyed and frustrated with the three of them for treating him like an invalid, like he was helpless and dependent. That righteous anger sort of sloughed off when their incessant babying was reframed as his three closest friends grasping at straws trying to help.</p><p>“Maybe it feels strange,” Roger said, picking small bites off the plain toast in the middle of the table, “but I don’t need help.”</p><p>“There’s <em>nothing</em> I can do?” John’s voice was almost pleading. Begging for anything to grab hold of to assure himself he’d done all he could.</p><p>“If you really want to do something for me, stop treating me like I’m a totally different person,” Roger said. “I’m sick of you three looking at me like I’ve got a terminal illness.”</p><p>“If that’s what you want, I can do that,” John said eagerly. “I don’t—I don’t care <em>how</em> you feel better, I just didn’t know what to do. As long as you’re not binging to forget or anything, I’m fine moving on from it.”</p><p>“Finally,” Roger laughed, “<em>one</em> sensible one.”</p><p>“They’re not<em> not</em> sensible,” John said quietly.</p><p>“They treat me like I got my skull cracked open and half my cognitive abilities fell out,” Roger said, rolling his eyes, nibbling on the toast.</p><p>“Being overbearing doesn’t mean they think less of you or your ability to take care of yourself,” John said.</p><p>“You say that, but,” Roger sucked his teeth, “Brian did escort me home last time we all went out.”</p><p>“Did you shout at him for it? Is that why it’s been so tense?” John said in a whisper, like it might be a secret. Roger just nodded, easier to nod than to lie. “Well…I don’t know if you need to get angry at them for that.”</p><p>“Oh well,” he scoffed, “if <em>you</em> don’t think I ought to be angry then—”</p><p>“I only meant—”</p><p>“I mean really, John, how long will<em> I</em> have to baby <em>them</em> over this? I’m the one that got hurt but they’re the ones insisting I be chaperoned to and from my hotel room—”</p><p>“The last time we all left you to your own devices you got hurt,” John snapped. “Badly.” He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest and sighed in the beat of silence Roger left. “But if you’re done with it, so am I. They’ll come around soon enough.”</p><p>Roger waited. Part of him sure that John had some caveat to his apparent aloofness. But he said nothing. Neither did Roger.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>The show ended with an off beat bang and Roger was the first to hurry off the stage. They’d squeezed out two encores, the audience hadn’t noticed the disconnect all night but Roger did, and he knew everyone else did too. All that polite sympathy that made them withhold criticism when Roger floundered on the drums from the pain of his wounds, that was all spent. He lost any rights to that and knew he’d get his usual dressing down once their ears stopped ringing.</p><p>He flopped down on the long bench at the narrow table that served as their backstage vanity and set to wiping off the sweat-stained coverup he’d had to put on himself before the show. His bruises showed through less than before but only because of how they’d faded. His makeup application left a lot to be desired and he honestly expected Freddie to notice that a few shows back and start offering to do it for him again.</p><p>He pulled the tub of cold cream along the tablehis way, ignoring the others as they dawdled behind him, talking in low tones. Roger tried not to think about what Brian and John might be whispering about and untwisted the lid on the cold cream. He never knew how much to use so he stuck two fingers in and smeared that across his cheek. Not quite enough, so he went in for a bit more and rubbed it in until the white cold cream turned the light brown of his coverup.</p><p>He went in for more to spread across his nose and his other cheek. Just as his fingertips made contact with the cream, the tub was ripped out from under him.</p><p>Roger jumped and turned to his left to see Freddie at his side, holding the cold cream tub protectively and glaring down at Roger.</p><p>“This is mine you know, this isn’t for everyone,” he spat.</p><p>“Sorry,” Roger stammered out. Freddie’s bad mood towards him came and went. Roger didn’t blame him. If the situation had been reversed, if Freddie screamed and spat in his face, an apology wouldn’t smooth over all of the animosity there. But he didn’t exactly know how to deal with it, because he <em>had</em> already apologised.</p><p>“Is it so hard to ask before you go digging your unwashed hands into other peoples things?” he huffed.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Roger reiterated with a firmer tone.</p><p>Freddie kept his glare up for a few seconds more. But then his shoulders fell in a sort of defeat. He set the cream down and rubbed his eyes like exhaustion had totally taken over him. He took a deep breath, dropped his hands, crossed his arms, and stared down at Roger with an expression that reminded him of his mother would stare at him while at her wit’s end as she tried to come up with his punishment.</p><p>“Rog, let’s go wash that off,” Freddie said flatly. He patted Roger’s shoulder and mumbled a quiet ‘come on’ before heading for the door.</p><p>Whatever heart-to-heart Freddie envisioned, Roger wanted no part of. He apologised, that’s all he needed to do and it’s honestly all he could think to do. He couldn’t begin to guess what it was Freddie wanted from him. But he stood and followed Freddie out of their dressing room and into the men’s room.</p><p>“Lock the door,” Freddie said as he turned the hot water on in the sink.</p><p>“You gonna waterboard me?” Roger said as he shoved his shoulder into the door to get the lock to fit.</p><p>“I might,” Freddie said with a sigh. He doused a paper towel with the warm water and beckoned Roger closer. Roger couldn’t help but think this exchange could’ve been accomplished with a towel in their dressing room but he let Freddie dab away the mixture of cold cream and coverup. Roger watched him carefully. He hoped he might get a read on Freddie’s thought process if he stared at his stoic face long enough but he was too focused on carefully rinsing the product off Roger’s face.</p><p>He chucked one towel out and reached for another one, dipped it under the running water, and sighed when he turned back to Roger. “Rog…I…”</p><p>“I said I was sorry,” Roger quickly interjected. “And I am, I was overwhelmed, I shouldn’t’ve fought with you or spat at you but I said I was sorry.”</p><p>“I know you did,” Freddie cocked his head. “I’m not mad at that anymore.” Roger eyed him curiously. He wondered how petty it would be to point out the many many times Freddie had snapped at him over the last few days for seemingly no reason. “Okay—maybe I don’t feel great about it, but I’m not angry with you. I’m just stressed and it’s not fair that I keep taking it out on you but,” he grit his teeth, “you’re the one causing all this so.”</p><p>“What’re you stressed about?” Roger groaned. How long would he have to deal with everyone else’s stress about the situation that only happened to him. God forbid anything happen to land him in hospital. The three of them would be carrying on about how hard it was for <em>them</em> the entire time and months after the fact.</p><p>“Roger, I think…” His words began with a lot of conviction but petered out to silence that he held for a beat, maybe two. Then he quietly added, “I just want to know how you’re doing. You’re my best friend and you won’t let me look after you and…I’m worried.”</p><p>“Freddie,” he all but laughed, “I’m an adult, I don’t need looking after, I never did.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Look, I’ll admit that I wasn’t doing very well that night we fought, but,” he grinned, hoping to fade that concern on Freddie’s face, “I feel good now. Look at this,” Roger pressed his fingers into the lingering bruises on his face, “nothing, it doesn’t hurt.” He smacked his hip to show off how healed his worst wound was and smirked at the surprise on Freddie’s face.</p><p>“They really don’t hurt?”</p><p>“They really don’t,” Roger said with a tone of triumph. “It’ll take time for the colours to face but there’s no pain. And the pain was the only thing keeping me thinking about it. Now that none of his hurts, all that horrible shit won’t sit and fester.”</p><p>Freddie eyed him through narrowed eyes. Roger kept his grin up. He knew if it faltered Freddie would think he was lying to cover up some dark inner turmoil they all assumed he must have. “The bruises are better but…you don’t sleep very well.”</p><p>He used that ‘I didn’t sleep well’ to cover so much that he was glad to take the hit and admit he didn’t sleep well. Because he didn’t sleep well. His lack of sleep didn’t cause how jumpy and nervous he was, it didn’t make him paranoid and anxious, it didn’t make him flinch at the sight of strangers. But if Freddie thought it did, he’d happily go along with it. “I don’t sleep well, but that’s getting better.”</p><p>“It is?”</p><p>“It is. I’m over the hump,” Roger said. He was confident in that too. Waking up with no pain had made him confident in that. “I’m just easing back into it. You know when you break your arm, it still hurts a few days after the cast’s off, but it’s healed. There’re still little things but it’s all fixing, if not f<em>ixed</em>, you don’t have to worry.”</p><p>“What little things?” Freddie said with worry painted across his face.</p><p>“Nothing really,” Roger laughed and patted his shoulder. “A few bad dreams,” he shrugged, turned to the sink, and bent over it to rinse off what Freddie hadn’t got to.</p><p>“Just bad dreams?”</p><p>Bad dreams were basically the same as the few times he jumped at shadows or ducked out of a stranger’s touch. “Just bad dreams,” Roger said through the splashes of water. The only other symptoms were pain and that left him already. He wished Freddie had been there to see it, just to convince him of how fine he really felt. If he’d been in that bathroom, if he’d seen how thrilled Roger was to see his healed up hip and nose, he wouldn’t have such a desperate tone to his voice.</p><p>Although, that morning hadn’t exactly ended in triumph.</p><p>He reached for a towel to dry his face and blinked through the water droplets when he mumbled, “and er, some other things.” His words felt more like a reflex than a decision. His body’s involuntary way of trying to purge the burden of keeping it all to himself.</p><p>“What things?” Freddie inched closer, rested against the sinks and looked at Roger like he was on his deathbed.</p><p>“I’m just,” Roger cleared his throat, “getting used to myself again,” why was he vomiting this up to Freddie, “I think I gotta get back into the swing of…things.”</p><p>“Things?”</p><p>“Things,” Roger said with a telling motion of his hand.</p><p>“Oh,” Freddie said, averting his eyes from Roger’s hand motion like it was something private. “I figured that would…be harder to do after.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Roger wasn’t sure why he expected Freddie to tell him it’d be fine, to tell him that was normal and temporary, to not look so horrified. But, as with everything else, he could tell himself it’d be fine and temporary. “I’ve just got to get back into the swing.”</p><p>“You’re sure that’s the best way?”</p><p>Roger tensed his jaw, doing his best not to go into another tirade about how he was the one hurt—not hurt but…<em>effected</em> by this and he didn’t need outside opinions on what he was doing wrong to fix it. He tried to keep John’s comments at the forefront of his mind. He was the one hurt but they, Freddie in particular, were the ones who had to stop it from getting worse and who nursed him while he was comatose. There was something to be said about their lingering worry. That something wasn’t ‘thank you’ and it wasn’t encouragement, but Freddie didn’t deserve to be yelled at again.</p><p>“Well,” Freddie said after a strange length of silence, “it’s up to you, if you feel better.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Roger sucked in a deep breath to force him to stop gritting his teeth so hard.</p><p>“Sorry I was a bitch about the cold cream,” Freddie sighed. Roger just laughed. That didn’t really need an apology. “Come on,” Freddie said with arms wide open. Roger didn’t move so Freddie stepped in and wrapped his arms tight around him. “You know I love you right—”</p><p>“Don’t get all mushy, we’ve got enough people calling us nancy boys,” Roger said. But he hugged him back, just as tight.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Leo, actually,” Roger said, trying not to flinch when the woman reached out and curled a lock of his hair around her finger. He got a few looks from John and Brian when he hopped in the car with them to head to the club Freddie was dying to get to. John’s were of lingering concern, Brian’s seemed to be more about having to be in close proximity of Roger for the duration of the car ride.</p><p>There was nothing Roger could say at this point. He’d apologised for what he’d done but he knew that wasn’t enough and he also knew there was nothing else left to offer up. So if Brian stayed sour it was his fault and, as far as he could tell, there was no recourse. So he may as well get used to it. If he could.</p><p>“Oh, I’m a Libra,” she grinned, “that means we’re compatible.”</p><p>Roger knew very little about star signs outside of Freddie telling him he was a Leo and so was John and the little lions on their insignia were for them. But it was the closest thing to a conversation they’d worked out after several dead ends about her boring job and his useless opinions on the music she liked. If he was honest, despite how thin, and tall, and perfectly put together she was, Roger wasn’t focused like he’d normally be. He wasn’t excited and realised the longer she twirled his hair, he wouldn’t mind if she got up and left.</p><p>“Is that true?”</p><p>“I dunno,” she laughed, “let’s find out.”</p><p>He wanted to be out, he was pushing back the anxiety of strangers buzzing around him for the relief of a night spent with someone pretty who hung on his every word. He wanted to go back to his hotel with the woman whose name he couldn’t remember, and let her overwrite the memory of the alley with her body. He just wished it wouldn’t be such a show. Everyone would know, they’d all have comments for him in the morning about how it was reckless or bad for him to jump back in with someone. He contemplated sending her to the hotel ahead of him just to avoid them knowing.</p><p>“Do I have to ask or are you gonna invite me to your hotel?” she said with a grin and an eye roll.</p><p>“Oh—right,” Roger downed the whiskey he ordered, the whiskey he kept his hand on top of the entire night, and slammed the glass back down, “it’s real nearby.”</p><p>“My favourite.”</p><p>She took his hand as they started through the crowd and towards the door. He didn’t want it, couldn’t exactly jerk away from her, but he didn’t hold on how she was. Something about her skin against his put him on edge, especially with the crowds of people and loud blaring music doing a number on his bearings.</p><p>But his focus was less on the woman or how her hand felt in his, and more about getting out before Freddie, John, or Brian saw. It wasn’t likely but if he could do it he’d try. It’d be a lot easier to go through with all of this without any judgmental looks from the three of them at the back of his mind all night. And he did leave Freddie somewhere in the back of club, none the wiser, John caught his eye but didn’t notice the woman trailing behind him. He was nearly clear when Brian saw him. Or rather, when he saw Brian.</p><p>He stood near the door, holding his drink up by his chin though he wasn’t drinking it. His space had been entirely invaded by two women who saw his height first and assumed he was as chatty as he was tall. He had a shy grin on his face as he clearly fumbled to speak to them both. Roger hadn’t seen him grin in what felt like ages. He looked like the shy, smitten Brian he was so used to. The one he’d missed for so long. The one he’d spoiled his chances of ever meeting again.</p><p>Then Brian looked back, zeroing in on Roger like instinct had told him he was being watched. That grin lingered on his face for a split second, Roger returned it for a split second. But it faded when he saw the woman thread her arm through Roger’s. He looked like he might say something. Roger wished he would. He didn’t care what it was anymore he just wanted Brian to speak to him, directly to him.</p><p>Brian turned his back.</p><p>Roger let out a deflated sigh. He didn’t know why but he felt guilty, or at very least he felt caught. It didn’t make sense, he wasn’t forbidden from taking women home but it didn’t feel right now that Brian’s sullen face was caught in his head.</p><p>“Well, come on,” the woman said, teasing Roger for freezing a few steps from the door. She went ahead of him and tugged him along behind her. He went with an awkward laugh and a glance in Brian’s direction.</p><p>Maybe he ought to stop and try and talk to him. Sit him down and apologise again, go over it. He had some straining urge to tell him that even though he didn’t feel the same, he never meant to hurt him, he’d never have done it if he weren’t so mixed up. But besides how undignified it was to beg for their old dynamic back, Roger knew it wasn’t fair. Roger’s presence only brought out Brian’s gentle and sweet nature when it wasn’t being mocked. He’d broken that trust and lost any claim he may have had to him and his love and attention.</p><p>Why was it’s absence such a gnawing pain? Why did he want it back so much? Was he really that desperate for attention? Or just desperate for that bit of superiority he felt when he made Brian blush, maybe after getting so brutally torn down he wanted to feel a little bit higher up than all that. But, maybe, it was that Brian was a safe comfort. Despite all his feelings, he never said a word, never crossed a line. The night Roger couldn’t bear to go outside, Brian held his trust and let him fall asleep watching the telly. Was it so strange to miss having someone like that to rely on?</p><p>“What’re you thinking of?” the woman said against his neck in the back of the car.</p><p>“You,” he said lazily. She didn’t bother figuring out if that was true or not.</p><p>He laughed off the way he flinched at her touch in the car. She’d graze her fingers across his leg, his hip, his arm, and he’d pull away but kiss her harder to grab her attention away from the reflexes he was fighting. She didn’t notice, and if she did she didn’t mind. She was all smiles on their way up to Roger’s room.</p><p>She made some comment about expecting a rock star to be in a more upscale place, but made herself at home quickly. She snapped the curtains shut. Roger’s room’s view was comprised entirely of a brick wall with no sign of life other side of it, but he probably would’ve drawn the curtains too, anything for a bit more privacy.</p><p>When he was younger, fifteen or sixteen, when sex was still new, it felt as daunting as it was exciting. That faded over time, the thrill was more calm and he couldn’t say he minded not looking like a fool with his jittery hands. He didn’t miss that feeling but he could look back fondly on it, at least until right then, when the feeling came back. Only with considerably less excitement and considerably more dread.</p><p>His hands didn’t shake when he tore her top off, but his palms were sweaty. Nerves for no reason. He knew what he was doing, he didn’t have to worry about messing it up but…</p><p>She fumbled getting his shirt off, she laughed through the mess of buttons her tipsy hands couldn’t handle and Roger shrugged it off once she’d got there. He had his insecurities being on the shorter side and far on the skinnier side, but he hadn’t felt so exposed by nothing in a long time. Just his shirt off, just the innocent expanse of his chest, his back, and he was thinking of ways he might cover himself up.</p><p>But that was the point wasn’t it. He knew this would be more of an uphill battle than it used to be, and that’s why he was pushing through it. If he didn’t get over the embarrassment, the uneasiness then it’d only fester. So once she’d tugged his trousers off and settled on her knees between his legs, he held his breath, gripped the edge of the mattress he sat on and tried to focus. She kissed her way down his chest, dragged her tongue across the red marks his pants left across his stomach, and tugged the elastic down far enough to free his cock.</p><p>“Oh,” she said. Her hand wrapped around his soft cock with an aimless goal of hardening it.</p><p>“Whiskey,” he said under his breath.</p><p>“I can fix it,” she winked. He grinned back weakly. He closed his eyes when she wrapped her lips around him. His only goal then was to focus on her and let her touch bring him back to normal. A moment with his eyes closed, trying to focus on her, only let his mind drift back to who it could’ve been. To what<em> other</em> stranger might’ve done this to him. So he opened them, stared at the woman, kept his eyes and his thoughts on her in a desperate attempt to fix the fear churning in his belly. “Maybe I can’t.” She said, pulling off him and pressing a kiss to his thigh.</p><p>“Sorry—I—”</p><p>“It’s alright,” she said. “More common than you’d think.”</p><p>“It normally—this doesn’t happen to me,” he stammered. She just shrugged as if to say ‘well, it’s happening now’. “Here,” he nudged her hand out of the way and stroked himself. Kept his eyes open while he did it, doing everything he could not to let the memory of that man’s touch invade his mind again. She ran her hands along his thighs, a touch that he might’ve found comforting if things were different.</p><p>She’d done nothing wrong but she wasn’t what he needed. He wasn’t even sure of her beauty anymore. So much about her was firing off warnings in Roger that no amount of careful focus on Bridget Bardot would fix.</p><p>The woman hummed, kissed at his hip, and replaced his hand with hers once it became apparent they both had an equal shot of getting it to work.</p><p>“Try your mouth again,” Roger breathed. She wasted no time obliging, doing what she could and carefully covering her teeth with each pitiful thrust Roger offered. It felt good, but not nearly how it should’ve. Almost like he was partially numb or somehow missing something. She would’ve had better luck sucking on his finger.</p><p>Her efforts paid off barely. She got them some hardness that required intense focus on Roger’s part, focus that he knew wouldn’t last all night. When her jaw got sore she pulled off, rested her cheek on Roger’s leg and smirked at him with considerably less enthusiasm. Roger had nothing to offer her. He didn’t know why she couldn’t fix this for him, on paper she would’ve been perfect. It made as much sense to him as it did to her. He opened his mouth to apologise but she beat him to breaking the silence.</p><p>“Nice scar,” she kept one hand loosely stroking his cock as if there was any chance of it springing to life, and used the other to run her fingers over Roger’s hip and the healing skin there.</p><p>“Oh—it’s not a scar, it’s still just healing up,” Roger said, still tensing each muscle in hopes of keeping what little hardness he had.</p><p>“Hm,” she ran her thumb over the mark.</p><p>“What?” he put a hand over hers and held it against his hip.</p><p>“Nothing,” she said, pulling away, “it’s just…that’s definitely a scar.”</p><p>“No it’s gonna heal,” Roger repeated rather blankly as his hearing dulled.</p><p>“It’s a cool-looking scar,” she said pointlessly.</p><p>It wasn’t a scar. It wasn’t a scar. It was going to heal and leave no trace of the glass bottle that made the mark or the man that shattered the glass. It’s, “not a scar,” Roger mumbled before springing up, shoving her back off her knees and onto the floor in the process. He hurried, like time was somehow of the essence, to the desk. He ripped the desk lamp off it’s perch and held it to his skin, eyed the way it looked carefully. Then tore the lampshade off to get an even clearer view of what was there.</p><p>Silver skin. Shiny but firm. Red underneath. That’s what he’d been focused on. The red of the blood trapped under his skin. The red that would fade and make the mark look less angry. But everything else felt so rigid under his fingertips. Tough skin that had stitched itself back together over the hole the glass bottle left. She was right, Roger realised, as he kept prodding and staring at the mark in the private glow of the shadeless lamp in his left hand. This wouldn’t go away.</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>“Roger?”</p><p>For weeks he’d been sure he’d feel better, not just better—he’d feel <em>normal</em> as soon as the marks were gone. What the fuck would he do now that that was impossible. He couldn’t live like this, he couldn’t spend the rest of his life being so hyperaware of strangers, so anxious in crowds, so paranoid about his drinks. What the fuck was he going to do with this scar, with everything it kept tied to his body and mind.</p><p>“Fuck!” He threw the lamp in his hand against the wall and nicked the telly on the way.</p><p>“Roger!” she screamed, tugging her top back on in a hurry.</p><p>“Get out,” he all but shouted, it wasn’t her fault but he couldn’t look at her. It all changed from a nervous first night with a stranger, to a horrible misstep taken with a broken body that he’d never fix. She didn’t say anything else but Roger saw her shadow cross the room. She slammed the door in her hurry, Roger paid it no mind. He pulled his shorts back up and made his way to the shattered television screen mixed in with the lightbulb shards off the lamp. “Fuck,” he muttered, trying to piece together how much it’d all cost them.</p><p>He paid no mind to small shards of glass under his feet while he fiddled with the controls to see if it might still work and by some miracle the staff might not notice what he’d done. He flicked it on, the light shone bright but no picture appeared through the cracked swaths of glass and the few holes. He knew no picture would show up, but he turned the dial through the channels anyway. Let himself believe his eyes were watering from the brightness of the exposed inner bulb.</p><p>He’d reached a dead end. Or maybe rock bottom. Nothing would remove or heal that scar, not without leaving a trace, not without leaving some remnant of what happened. Every day until he died he’d look in the mirror and see it and remember where it came from. The phenomenon had been bad enough the last few weeks when he thought it’d go away in a month or so, he couldn’t imagine facing his reflection knowing it’d always look like that. He coughed when his throat caught and the tears in his eyes finally fell.</p><p>All for fucking nothing. All his suffering in silence, all his assuring everyone he’d be fine, all his eye-rolling at their caution and overprotectiveness, all his indignation at it. All for fucking nothing. He would never be fine, he would never get to move on because that man carved himself into Roger’s hip and there was no way to undo that.</p><p><em>I’ll always be like this,</em> he thought as he flicked from bright white channel to bright white channel, back and forth aimlessly, only getting bits and pieces of the sound.</p><p>He’d been too cocky, he figured, assuming he was stronger than his friend from school. He wasn’t doing half as well as he remembered her doing. She wasn’t the picture of stability for awhile but she pulled it together, she gathered herself and moved on until Roger forgot it ever happened to her. Where he was, bits of glass in his feet, his eyes crying and blurring his view of a blank and broken television screen, he couldn’t imagine himself ever pulling together. He couldn’t imagine himself leaving that fucking room. What would be waiting for him out there? Another impossibly long day spent acting like he was fine? Only this time he knew he’d never be fine, he never could be fine, not his mind and certainly not his marred body.</p><p>His weight shifted uncomfortably on the glass, nearly broke the skin, and though part of him figured it didn’t really matter if his body got another mark, most of him was too tired to consider bandaging up a wound, so he fell back, sat on the edge of his bed.</p><p>Crying wasn’t his go-to. It never felt cathartic or helpful. Most every time he’d done it it felt useless and never really came on naturally. He didn’t think that now. He couldn’t stop now. It wracked his body and mind and had him heaving for air, had him shivering with a type of exhaustion he hadn’t felt before. Maybe it was defeat. His body giving up on the fight he’d been putting up for so long. Shaking out the tension in his muscles that would do him no good anymore.</p><p>A knock at the door.</p><p>Roger froze. Held his breath, gripped his mattress and waited until he heard a second knock.</p><p>“Rog…I don’t mean to bother but…the walls are thin and I heard a loud bang and…” Brian’s voice said on the other side. He knocked again.</p><p>“It’s open,” Roger croaked out. What could it hurt to let someone see him like this? It wasn’t like he’d get any better.</p><p>The door swung open. Brian breathed a drawn out ‘oh’ as he took it all in. He lingering on Roger and his red eyes then glances over the dent the lamp made in the wall, the much more substantial damage it’d done to the telly, and across the glass on the floor before landing on Roger again.</p><p>“What happened?” He took a careful step inside and let the door close. He shuffled forward, trying not to disturb any glass.</p><p>“It’s a scar,” Roger said, wiping his eyes quickly.</p><p>“What?” Brian said, concern and confusion mixing beautifully on his face.</p><p>Roger pushed his waistband down to uncover it. “It scarred.”</p><p>Brian looked from the mark to Roger, and back and forth with his brows knitted up. Like he was waiting for something else. “Yes,” he said, “that’s good isn’t it? It’s healed up.”</p><p>“It’s <em>not</em> healed up,” Roger said, not caring how uneven his voice was, or how uncontrolled his tears were, “it’s never going to be fucking healed up! It’s a scar!”</p><p>Brian swept the glass aside with the edge of his boot and contained it to the spot just below the telly. “I er,” he turned to Roger, “if I’m honest, Rog, it looks better than I thought it would.”</p><p>“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Roger hiccuped, but tried hard not to let any more tears fall.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Brian said shaking his head. An old habit of his. He shook his head like that when he was searching for <em>just</em> the right words. Roger used to tease him and tell him he was shaking all the wrong ones out his ears. It was more fun when the scenario was a dispute in sheet music or a carefully worded compliment about Roger’s clothes. “Can I sit?”</p><p>Roger shook his hands out and shrugged, as much of an invitation as anything else. Just the weight of Brian next to him, the slight shift in the mattress when he sat, brought a strange calmness to Roger. It wasn’t quite comfort but more a stabiliser, some ballast to keep Roger from tipping.</p><p>“It’ll fade,” Brian said after awkwardly adjusting how he sat a few times. “Not all the way but it’ll fade.”</p><p>Roger sucked his teeth. “I was just…I was so sure I’d feel fine when it all healed.” He glanced Brian’s way. His expression was blank, or maybe Roger couldn’t read it. “I felt so much better when it all stopped hurting, but,” his breathing fluttered as the sobs threatened to start up again, “but it’s never gonna <em>actually</em> heal.” He wiped his cheeks with a sort of roughness that he hoped would counteract the vulnerability of the tears.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Brian said. That was better than any half-hearted, uniformed attempt at telling Roger how it would all be fine one day.</p><p>“Thanks,” Roger breathed. He took in a deep shaking breath and huffed it out quick. Then pressed his shoulder against Brian’s. After a few beats of silence, Brian’s arm awkwardly shifted in a series of unsure and choppy motions as it wrapped around Roger and came to rest on his bicep tentatively.</p><p>“Is this helping?” Brian’s voice was just above a whisper in Roger’s ear.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Roger replied. It certainly felt like it was. Just like the night when Brian had stayed up with him until he fell asleep, with Brian’s arm around him he felt like he had less to worry about. “Y’know this happened to a friend of mine back in Truro.”</p><p>“Oh—God—How old were you?”</p><p>“We were about sixteen,” Roger said. “It really scared me, if I’m honest. My mum told me about it in total secret and made me promise to be kind to her and walk her home. And she, she was so jumpy and cried off and on for awhile, and she’d panic about the strangest things. I’ve been trying so hard not to be like her, and I really thought I’d done it too, but now…I don’t think I have what it takes.”</p><p>“Roger you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Brian held him a little tighter. His grip was still awkward but he was trying, in his own way, to comfort Roger. Though, in reality, he didn’t need to do much more than sit in silence with him.</p><p>“I’m giving myself too much,” Roger huffed. “She got really hurt. That man snapped her wrist and raped her. I got bruised up in an alley and saved. And I can’t even do as well as she did.”</p><p>“You know that’s not fair,” Brian said. He leant down to make sure he caught Roger’s eye when he said that. “Other people having it worse doesn’t make your situation better. And other people healing faster doesn’t make you a lost cause. It’s all at your own pace, it doesn’t matter what that pace is.”</p><p>The phrase ‘easy for you to say’ was on the tip of Roger’s tongue. But he held it back. He didn’t agree with Brian but there was no use in arguing it, it wasn’t like Brian could understand it the way he did.</p><p>“Are you hungry?” Brian said through the thick silence.</p><p>Roger smirked. “Are you?”</p><p>“If you are,” Brian said.</p><p>“You don’t need to mother me,” he said, but he didn’t mean it. If Brian could spend the whole night sitting next to him telling him how great he was doing, Roger certainly wouldn’t say no. But he didn’t want him there out of pity. He knew Brian wasn’t thrilled with him and he’d rather not gloss over that only to replace it with pity.</p><p>“Do you want me to go?” Brian’s arm wrapped around him slowly retracted despite every ounce of Roger wishing it wouldn’t.</p><p>He steeled himself and put on the best ‘I’m fine’ impersonation he could. “Do what you like,” he said as he maneuvered his way up the bed and pressed his back against the cushioned headboard. Lounging as if he was enthralled with the static white on the telly. Brian stared for a moment, eyeing Roger with a look he couldn’t pinpoint, then stood. Roger panicked, only briefly, and fought the urge to beg him to stay a bit longer. The only reason he stopped fighting that urge was because Brian didn’t head for the door but instead settled in the spot next to Roger. Roger hoped the relief wasn’t too obvious on his face. Though it probably became obvious in the way he immediately leant on him.</p><p>He shifted to lean more on him, to get more comfortable against him, and Brian let him, not moving an inch while he shuffled around. That was just his nature. Freddie was more outwardly a caregiver and made a big fuss about it which Roger relied on more often than he’d admit. But Brian had the same disposition, just quieter. And maybe just for Roger.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” croaked Roger.</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For what I did,” he hoped that was enough explanation, and judging by the way Brian tensed against him it had jogged his memory.</p><p>“It’s okay—”</p><p>“It’s not—”</p><p>“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Brian snapped. Not loud but firm. “You’re…obviously not feeling very well, you’re bound to do things you regret. Let’s just forget it.”</p><p>“Okay,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”</p><p>“I didn’t go anywhere.”</p><p>“From me you did. And I missed you,” Roger said.</p><p>“Did you really?” Brian asked, though it sounded rhetorical. “You looked like you were having plenty of fun without me.”</p><p>Roger burst into a laugh. “You and I must have different definitions of fun.”</p><p>“You took that supermodel home tonight,” Brian said, “that must’ve been fun.”</p><p>“She’s a nail technician,” Roger corrected, “and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but she’s actually not here.”</p><p>“Well…sounded like fun on the other side of the wall,” Brian muttered. “For a bit at least.”</p><p>“Mm,” he took a deep breath in, “we didn’t get very far. Not for lack of trying,” he added with a morbid laugh.</p><p>“Why—what happened?” Brian turned to him.</p><p>“What d’you think happened?” he scoffed. “I invited her back her to get her over this horrible…thing I’ve got and she spent the whole time trying to get me hard, and not only did it not fucking work but she pointed out that this,” he covered the mark with his hand, “is a scar.”</p><p>“What horrible thing?” Brian said, shifting more, only by a few inches, to face him while he spoke. “You never mentioned a horrible thing.”</p><p>“It’s not that horrible,” Roger hoped that would quell some of the worry on Brian’s face. “I’ve just…I haven’t really been able to get it to work. Every time I try it just…feels like him again and…”</p><p>“Oh,” Brian winced, “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Roger ignored those condolences and added, “it’s with everyone I touch though. I don’t know why I thought bringing home a beautiful woman would fix it since it fucking took all of my energy not to panic when she held my hand.” He took in a shuddering breath as his body threatened to send him into tears again.</p><p>“Well…” the lilt in Brian’s voice made him sound as lost for words of comfort as Roger figured he’d be. How was he supposed to know what would make this better when he’d never lived it. “It’s not everyone.”</p><p>“How’s that?”</p><p>“You’re not uneasy with touch, you’re uneasy with strangers, or—at least people you don’t quite trust.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Roger said in a mocking tone, trying to gauge how Brian came to that conclusion.</p><p>“Sure it is,” Brian stood firm, “if you were so adverse to <em>anyone</em> touching you, you wouldn’t let me sit here,” Brian shifted under Roger just enough to make it more obvious just how much Roger was pressed up against him. “I bet if you were with someone you trusted you wouldn’t have…all the problems you had tonight. I don’t think this is something you’ve really got to worry about just yet.”</p><p>Roger sat up just a bit, just so he was eye-level with Brian but still pressed up tight against him. Brian looked at him expectantly, no doubt waiting for Roger to argue with him. But Roger’s mind was elsewhere. Somewhere he’d never found it before but not somewhere he was eager to leave. “Are you offering?”</p><p>“Offering?” Brian cocked his head. Roger said nothing and knew Brian caught on when he blushed a beautiful red and averted his eyes back to the telly. “Of course not—I’d never—you’re not in any shape to…” Roger ducked and caught his eye. Aside from the wide eyes and red cheeks, he was a blank canvas, and Roger knew his own face must be just as unreadable.</p><p>Silence persisted between them while Roger tried to work out Brian’s thoughts, and while Brian no doubt did the same. “Here,” Roger hummed. He reached out for Brian’s hand and guided it slowly across his body, and down, between his legs. He pressed his palm down, trying to communicate to Brian that he didn’t need to be tentative though everything about Brian’s tight jaw and moony eyes told him he’d be tentative anyway. Roger pulled his hand away then, and held his breath as Brian’s fingertips came to rest against the fabric of his pants, putting pressure on him here and there. He kept his hand exactly how Roger left it, not daring to really touch, but not pulling away either.</p><p>“Roger,” Brian whispered.</p><p>“You don’t have to,” Roger said.</p><p>“It’s…not that,” Brian huffed. His hand moved, a slight change, his hand no longer just resting in Roger’s lap but loosely, vaguely wrapped around him now. Roger sighed and felt Brian’s touch tighten when he did. “You’re sure this’ll help?”</p><p>“No,” Roger said, “but nothing else has.”</p><p>“Will you even like it from a man?” Brian said, stroking him lazily through the fabric.</p><p>“I’ll like it from you.” Roger reached down, guided his waistband down lower, his eyes locked on Brian’s as he freed his cock. He watched his eyes, watched how wide Brian’s pupils got when Roger felt his fingertips on his bare skin. He didn’t have to invoke Bridget Bardot laid bare this time. “Oh,” he breathed, feeling his body finally come to life without having to check over his shoulder for the looming threat of his memory.</p><p>“This okay?” Brian said, moving his hand slow but firm. Roger nodded and buried his face in the crook of Brian’s neck. He’d rather not watch this part. Too messy, too personal, to undignified. Any highground he may once have had between them was leveled here and Roger didn’t feel like watching it expose his vulnerabilities. He breathed heavy, in time with Brian’s movements and sped up when Brian did.</p><p>“God, it actually feels good,” Roger hummed against his neck, and absently kissed the expanse of Brian’s neck he could reach.</p><p>“It does?” Roger couldn’t imagine why Brian needed to ask that. He knew he was hard, knew he was leaking. But far be it from Brian <em>not</em> to be overly cautious about everything.</p><p>Roger just laughed, it felt like he hadn’t done that genuinely in ages. He hadn’t done this in ages either. He’d been to preoccupied with the pain, and subsequently the fear, he’d nearly forgot how to feel pleasure. It didn’t matter that it was a man giving it to him. Maybe it mattered that it was Brian though. Roger opened his eyes, pulled back enough to rest his head on Brian’s shoulder, to get a glimpse of him while he moved.</p><p>So focused, but so red. So red. With his brows knitted up in careful concentration. Roger wasn’t sure what he could be concentrating on, the up and down motion wasn’t exactly difficult.</p><p>“Close,” Roger warned. There was no polite way to say ‘it’s been awhile, this is gonna make a mess’, so he just hoped Brian put two and two together when he sped up. Roger shut his eyes tight reached out, dug his nails into Brian’s side, and held his breath when Brian sent him over the edge.</p><p>He didn’t bother taming the sounds he made. What was the point in saving face? Brian muttered something, some calming words as he stroked him through it, but Roger couldn’t make them out. He panted, lazily mouthed at Brian’s neck and the words ‘thank you’ practically fell from his mouth. Brian gave him a moment to catch his breath, to come down. When he finally did, and finally opened his eyes, he saw the mess he’d left on Brian’s thigh.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said tiredly, “I can—I can get that out before it stains,” Roger reached down to tug at the fabric of Brian’s trousers.</p><p>“It’s alright, I can get it myself.” He shifted a bit, giving Roger the hint he was getting up, and Roger fell back against the headboard and out of his arms. He swung his legs over, and it occurred to Roger—</p><p>“Are you hard?” he said. Brian looked over his shoulder, his cheeks still red his eyes still wide as saucers.</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Brian said.</p><p>“I can do it for you if you—” Roger began.</p><p>“No,” Brian said quickly. Louder than he’d spoken all night.</p><p>“Oh,” Roger flinched. “Alright.”</p><p>“Alright,” Brian repeated. He held Roger’s gaze for a moment but never said anything, just stood and hurried to Roger’s bathroom. He turned the water on almost before he’d shut the door, drowning out any sound he might’ve made while he rinsed his trousers or took care of himself.</p><p>Roger laid down, turned on his side, stared at the door like he might see through it if he tried hard enough. It wasn’t that he wanted to return the favour. Of course he didn’t want to return the favour. But why had Brian said no? Did he feel nothing anymore? Was he embarrassed of something? Did he think Roger’d be bad at it? Did he think Roger might do something cruel again? What could’ve possibly possessed him to <em>turn</em> that down. The only thing that came to mind was Roger’s devolution. His fall from the Roger they all knew to a crying mess that came on him. Brian must’ve been in that bathroom, getting rid of the erection he had, pitying Roger and thinking it morally unsound to get off with him now that it was clear Roger had hit rock bottom. Suddenly that little bit of comfort and relief Brian worked out of him didn’t feel worth it.</p><p>He kept his eyes on the bathroom door, watching and waiting for it to open again, exhaustion looming over him with each blink, until the water finally stopped running, the door cracked, and Brian came out, missing his trousers and missing that fluorescent blush.</p><p>“Are you asleep?” Brian whispered.</p><p>Roger blinked heavy but tried to look awake. “Barely,” he said.</p><p>“D’you want me to go?”</p><p>“Where’ll you go?” Roger said with a laugh. “You’ve got no trousers.”</p><p>“I’m only next door,” Brian said.</p><p>“Well,” Roger wouldn’t beg him for anything else, “go if you want.”</p><p>“What do<em> you</em> want?”</p><p>“I don’t care,” Roger said as cheerily as possible before turning over, facing the window instead of Brian. He held his breath, waiting to hear what Brian decided, and closing his eyes in exhausted relief when he felt Brian dip the mattress next to him.</p><p>“I’ll stay ’til you’re asleep,” he said.</p><p>Roger wanted to roll back over, to nestle in with Brian, close enough to feel his warmth and his presence, far enough to not be woken up by his absence when he left. He wanted to thank him, wanted to apologise for how much of a mess he’d been, wanted to plead with him and beg him not to let this effect how Brian saw him. But he’d been cloying and heavy the entire night, he could at least try to end it with some dignity.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said into his pillow and heard no reply from Brian.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>Still a scar.</p><p>He thumbed at the mark in the mirror. Still a scar. It hadn’t been some horrible dream, it was his new reality, his new body. And he’d spent his first night with it in Brian’s hands. His mind flooded with questions he couldn’t answer. How was he meant to move forward when his body kept him in the past? How was he meant to feel better when he’d never heal? How was he supposed to feel anything but fear and tension anymore? He didn’t know and he knew no one else did either. But a small part of him was glad to have more mundane questions to overcome. Things that were more immediate and incredibly distracting.</p><p>
  <em>What do I say to Brian over breakfast?</em>
</p><p>‘Thank you’ felt odd. ‘Sorry’ felt just as odd. He didn’t know what to classify the night before but he was determined to claw from it a shred of dignity that would keep Brian from looking down on him like he was damaged goods. But, just like everything else, he didn’t have a clue how he’d do that. He just knew he had to.</p><p>He packed quick and worked up his normal blasé persona. Cigarette, sunglasses, not a care in the world as he made his way down to the cafe with his luggage in hand. The cigarette gave him something to do with his shaking hands, and the sunglasses masked the anxiety clear in his eyes. He took a long drag stepping off the lift and hoped that somehow Brian was already on the bus and waiting to leave despite Brian almost always being the last to wake up.</p><p>No such luck of course. Brian’s hair peeked out over the booth the three of them sat at. He steeled himself and waved back to Freddie on his painfully short trek to the table.</p><p>“Morning Rog,” John said.</p><p>“You’re up early,” Freddie said.</p><p>“Am I?” Roger sat in the open space by Freddie and kicked his bag under the table to keep it from tripping a waitress.</p><p>“Did you sleep well?” Freddie said, hardly masking what he was really asking.</p><p>“I er,” Roger glanced Brian’s way, thankful his glasses hid his eyes, “I slept a lot better actually, yeah.”</p><p>“Finally,” Freddie huffed. “You’ve earned a good night’s sleep, the circles under your eyes were looking ghoulish.”</p><p>“It’s part of the <em>look</em>, Fred,” John teased.</p><p>“No <em>look</em> of ours darling, we’re supposed to be pretty not corpse-like.” Freddie reached up for Roger’s sunglasses. Roger only flinched, didn’t fight him when he slipped them off his nose. His eyes had nothing to hide, he hadn’t written ‘Brian wanked me off’ on his lids, but with Freddie’s hand under his chin, inspecting each square inch of his face, it certainly felt like he had. “Look at you,” he cooed, “you look ten years younger.”</p><p>“Thanks? I suppose,” Roger laughed.</p><p>“You were in your late twenties yesterday, today you’re back to being eighteen,” Freddie nudged him with his elbow.</p><p>“I was thinking he was in his mid-forties yesterday and looked conservatively thirty-two today,” John said to Freddie with a snicker.</p><p>“Oh please,” Freddie reached over, sorted out the bits of fringe Roger hand and cupped his cheeks, “this face will never look a day over twenty five.”</p><p>“It will if he keeps smoking,” Brian said quietly. His voice was low and his eyes were on his food.</p><p>Freddie groaned. “Not the soapbox this early.”</p><p>“I’m not on a soapbox.”</p><p>“But you’ve pulled it out of storage,” John said.</p><p>Brian just rolled his eyes and went back to focusing on his food. Roger wasn’t sure why he felt like he was meant to defend him just then, but he did, and he felt guilty now looking at Brian’s dejected expression staring at the unimpressive toast and eggs on his plate.</p><p>“Actually, Rog, let me out,” Freddie said, scooting into Roger’s thigh, “I think if we pack up early we can leave early and then we won’t have ten fucking minutes between check in and our next show.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Roger said, bouncing out of the booth to set Freddie free.</p><p>“This is a one time deal,” Freddie said as he pulled Roger’s bag out from under the table. “Don’t expect this treatment ever again, I’m not doing it for you I’m doing it for me and my pre-show routine,” he huffed as he pulled the bag up and into his arms.</p><p>“How badly do you want to enjoy your pre-show routine?” John said, kicking his own bag out from under the table.</p><p>“You’ve already eaten, why can’t you haul that monstrosity yourself?”</p><p>“You’re already standing up.”</p><p>“I’ll call Veronica and tell her you beat me,” Freddie said.</p><p>John tried to fake an indignant huff but laughed instead and stood up. “I’ll carry it myself but I reserve the right to fuck with your pre-show routine.”</p><p>“I’ll fire you if you do,” Freddie said with a wide grin watching John pick his bag up. Roger kept his eyes on them, kept his smile casual and wide, hoping somehow one of them would piece together that he’d really rather someone stay. He’d really rather not get left with Brian who he hadn’t yet crafted a beautifully flippant series of jokes for. His cry for help in the form of a polite smile and a newfound interest in the menu didn’t end up alerting Freddie to the tension knot in his stomach and he and John left for the bus.</p><p>What was he supposed to say? What joke could he make about how pathetic he’d been? He’d been hanging off Brian, whining into his neck, thanking him like a virgin after crying on his shoulder for longer than he’d ever cried on anyone’s shoulder. This was a minefield. So naturally he went straight for small talk.</p><p>“Are the eggs good?” He kept his eyes on the menu.</p><p>“What?” Brian snapped.</p><p>“Are the eggs er…good?” Roger repeated.</p><p>“Er…fine,” Roger looked up just in time to see Brian roll his eyes and go back to picking at his food. God, he couldn’t do this again. The silent treatment was bad enough but the awkward silent treatment would kill him in the end. But nothing came to mind, there was no avenue for him to poke fun at himself for what a mess he’d been the night before without it looking…desperate for approval. Although, he sort of was desperate.</p><p>Maybe he ought to just be direct. Brian appreciated bluntness more than any of them and the reverse was true about his opinion of Roger’s usual dodging and weaving via jokes.</p><p>“Look,” they both said in unison. The shock of it forced them to actually look at each other. They both waited for the other to jump in but Roger didn’t have anything profound to say and readily opened the floor to Brian with a wave of his arm across the table.</p><p>“Alright,” Brian said as he crossed his arms against the table, “I don’t know—maybe you were gonna say but…I…just…Why did you do that?”</p><p>“What?” Roger coughed. Right to it then. “What’d’you mean?”</p><p>“I mean what do you want from me?” He sounded tired, not sleepy but exhausted. Roger opened his mouth to speak but Brian must’ve known he had nothing of substance lined up. “I just want to know why you asked me to do that.”</p><p>“I didn’t ask, it just happened—”</p><p>“No it didn’t just happen,” Brian said, smacking his hand on the table, “you asked. You put my hand on it.”</p><p>“You didn’t pull it away,” Roger said, trying to share the blame equally but for what?</p><p>“I just want to know why you asked,” he rubbed his face tiredly. “Was it because…” he dropped his gaze, “you wanted <em>me</em> there to…give you whatever it was you got out of that or was it because you just needed <em>someone</em> to work that out with and since the woman left, you found someone you knew would say yes?”</p><p>“Er,” Roger hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even thought about it if he was honest. He took it for granted that Brian was slowly falling out of any love he felt for Roger the closer he got to the real mess he was. He’d been so oriented in trying to salvage what little he could from Brian’s feelings, he hadn’t considered they hadn’t spontaneously disappeared when he saw Roger cry. He hadn’t even really considered what he was doing to him when he asked for last night. “I don’t…know.”</p><p>“What—what do you mean you don’t know?” Brian pressed.</p><p>That was all he could offer. He didn’t know. In his head he’d spent that time with Brian because he needed to, and because he wanted to. But did he need to because he wanted to or want to because he needed to. Did he ask Brian because he needed someone he could trust to do what the woman couldn’t, or did he ask because he wanted Brian. Did it even have to be one or the other. He couldn’t piece them together right then, his mind hadn’t felt cohesive in a long time. But what did Brian want to hear?</p><p>That he wanted him specifically but only let that show in a teary mess after a lengthy and unsuccessful attempt with a stranger? That he didn’t want him but needed someone to guide him through it and Brian was a good bet? The first felt more true than the latter. But how could he really know? He’d spent so much time enjoying the attention and care Brian gave him out of a dead end love, what if this was an offshoot of that? A more obvious and intense servitude that he wanted to keep around whether or not it was Brian? It didn’t feel true, in his gut he knew it wasn’t, but so what? It wasn’t like he could offer Brian anything by it, not now.</p><p>“If you have to think then…fuck just—forget I asked. But can you…I’m trying to help you,” Brian said with a shake in his voice, “and I know it’s harder for you to live this than it is for me to help you through it but…it’s not fair for you to do shit like this to me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Roger said quickly. Those were the only sincere words he could think of.</p><p>“Don’t be sorry, just stop…doing this to me,” Brian said. He uselessly tried to return to eating but gave up quick. Dropped his forked and walked out. Roger didn’t have much of an appetite but waited a few beats before walking out and slowly meandering to the bus.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So... Yes it has been a long time and I'm sorry for that. What else is there to say other than life gets in the way and my own health hasn't been super good lately. But this was still fun to write while I could and I'm glad I'm finally able to upload again! Sorry to anyone who got lost in the wait but I hope you enjoy this chapter! And please comment if you do &lt;33</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
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</div><p>“Here,” Brian slammed a comb down by Roger.</p>
<p>Roger jumped at the sound but stopped himself from yelping. “Thanks,” he said to Brian who had already meandered halfway across the dressing room. He shrugged to say ‘no problem’ and put headphones on while he plucked at his guitar. Roger watched him for a moment more. Surely, if he stared long enough something clever and charismatic would come out.</p>
<p>When nothing did, he turned back to the vanity mirror he was sat in front of and took the comb to his hair. They were three performances, five days, away from their flight back home. It didn’t make much sense but Roger had a horrible feeling that if he didn’t mend things with Brian before they got on that plane home, they’d never mend. Not fully. It wasn’t as if Brian was actively upset with him. He was perfectly civil, polite even. Just like he’d been all those weeks ago when Roger kissed him to prove a cruel point. But…different.</p>
<p>There was nothing that could or would stop Brian from being typical Brian. Overly caring, overly kind, accommodating to all around him. He wouldn’t stop worrying about Roger. But unlike before, it appeared he no longer had an interest in indulging those feelings. Roger couldn’t blame him. Twice now he’d hurt him worse than he’d ever done their entire friendship. It didn’t matter how earnest Roger was the last time he and Brian were alone, he’d knowingly crossed a line.</p>
<p>“What’s that for?” Freddie stared at Roger through the mirror and pointed at the scowl on Roger’s face.</p>
<p>“Headache,” Roger said.</p>
<p>“You’ve had a headache for awhile now,” said Freddie, “is your brain swollen or are you lying?”</p>
<p>“Brain’s swollen,” Roger said offhand. He pulled the comb through a knot in his hair.</p>
<p>“Fine,” Freddie huffed, “I’ll tell management you can’t perform because your brain’s the size of a beach ball.”</p>
<p>“Fine,” Roger huffed right back. Freddie pursed his lips and glared. He wanted to tell Roger off or throw some sort of a fit but his leeway for Roger stopped him. For once, Roger didn’t mind using his status as victim to mitigate being yelled at. He’d yelled at himself plenty for this one.</p>
<p>“What’re we doing after?” John said, balancing from foot to foot with his bass in his hands.</p>
<p>“Dunno,” Freddie said filling a silence that was left by Roger and Brian. With so much tension between the two of them it was hard for Roger to muster up the energy for a night out. Although, he was fairly certain, even if he and Brian were on good terms he’d rather stay in. “Think it might be just us two again.”</p>
<p>“Fuck’s sake,” John rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>“Am I chopped liver?” Freddie put a dramatic hand over his heart.</p>
<p>“Oi,” John ignored Freddie and snapped his fingers in front of Brian’s eyes, “headphones off,” he said, snapping all the while until Brian got his headphones off his ears, “you coming out tonight after the show?”</p>
<p>“Er,” Roger eyed Brian through the mirror. The look on his face said ‘no’ but his uneven grip on his guitar said ‘how many more times can I politely say no’.</p>
<p>“Whatever,” John huffed and fell into the seat next to Brian on the small couch. John wouldn’t press the issue because John rarely pressed any issue. Freddie wouldn’t press it because, well, he knew what probably caused it. He knew something happened, some fight some disagreement with him and Brian, all to do with his attack. And he wouldn’t mock or belittle that for the sake of night out, no matter how bad he wanted it.</p>
<p>“I,” Roger’s breath flickered, “I’ll go out with you two if you’re planning on it.”</p>
<p>Just as Roger hoped, Freddie’s face turned from pure discontent to exhilarated. “You will?”</p>
<p>“It’s our last few nights,” he shrugged.</p>
<p>“And you?” John said. Roger watched him nudge Brian with his elbow.</p>
<p>“I er,” Brian reached up to nervously fiddle with his hair. He glanced Roger’s way, caught his eye in the mirror. Roger averted his gaze quick and stared down at the table when Brian said, “I suppose it could be fun.”</p>
<p>Roger shot back up to Brian’s distant reflection. His attention was elsewhere by then but Roger could see the edge of a smile on his face. That had to be a good sign. Right?</p>
<p>A week of the tour had come and gone without them going anywhere more exotic than their hotel rooms. Roger knew his own motives didn’t revolve entirely around Brian, but he knew some of them did. And knew Brian must feel the same. Finally going out to some shitty bar for an overpriced drink could be an olive branch. In a way. Hopefully.</p>
<p>Fuck—even if it wasn’t, Roger was going to make it so. With a little whiskey and the cover of a dark club, it’d be easier to break the ice with him. Easier than trying to chat about the weather over a hotel breakfast anyway. Yes, this could work. And it could work before the tour ended. He and Brian could have a laugh about the whole thing and go back to London unscathed, they could leave it all there in the States.</p>
<p>When the four of them were given their minute warning and told to head for the stage, Roger popped up with a new energy he hadn’t had for most of the night. He shook his arms out and followed behind Freddie and John with some new energy propelling him forward. All he had to do was play a show, drink some, talk some and just like that all the turbulence of the past week would melt away.</p>
<p>The roar of the crowd got louder and louder the further down the hall they went, but Roger could hardly hear it. His mind was several steps ahead of his body, already off in London where the dust would already be settled. They hadn’t been on many tours that felt far from home, but even when Brian had come down with hepatitis, Roger had never been excited at the prospect of returning home like he was right then, picturing a stress-free afternoon at the studio with Brian at his side comfortably.</p>
<p>“Hey, good luck,” a man grabbed Roger’s arm in passing. Gave it a squeeze that Roger jerked out of defensively. The man jerked away too, surprised at Roger’s reaction. They stared at each other, both equally shocked and confused. Roger was no friend to strange men, not yet, he hadn’t settled into the comfort he used to have around them and who fucking knew if he ever would. But, God, how could he still be reacting so dramatically, so intensely, like it’d only just happened. He stared at the man, as if he’d have the answer.</p>
<p>“Er…” Roger began sloppily. His mind raced too fast for him to slow it down and form a sentence.</p>
<p>“Can you fucking ask before you go ‘round touching people?” Brian spat. That was about as rude as he could be.</p>
<p>“I—I’m sorry,” the man said with an awkward laugh, “didn’t mean anything by it.”</p>
<p>“Well you shouldn’t—” Brian began, his tone still lilting and innocent. He couldn’t really yell, he could sulk but he couldn’t yell.</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Roger interrupted, both to himself and to Brian. It wasn’t the man’s fault, it was his own. He was the one who got himself stuck in limbo, the one who couldn’t fucking get over what happened, he was the one flinching at a show of good will, why should the stranger be yelled at?</p>
<p>The man took his chance to scurry off and Roger sped up a bit to make up for lost yardage behind Freddie and John.</p>
<p>“Hey—” Brian said, taking one big step to account for Roger’s three, and sidling up to him, “you alright?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Roger kept his eyes forward. This was no time to dwell on his state of persistent unease or everyone’s awareness of it. It made his stomach turn thinking of what version of himself his closest friends saw these days. Mostly because ever since he discovered his scar, that version seemed closer to the truth than who he used to be. And—fuck—he didn’t need that shit in his head right before a fucking show— “and I don’t need help,” he said firmly.</p>
<p>“I was just—”</p>
<p>“I know what you were doing,” Roger huffed, “and I can take care of myself, I don’t need a handler.”</p>
<p>Brian looked at him with a look Roger would pin as ‘amused disbelief’. He muttered a quiet ‘do what you like’ as he picked up the pace and left Roger behind him.</p>
<p>Two steps forward and one step back.</p>
<p>Roger didn’t feel as guilty for that one though. Yes, he and Brian were walking a tightrope to keep their friendship from tearing apart, and yes he spent most of his time trying to find ways to get them on the same side again. But he had limits. He had some dignity he wouldn’t sacrifice for the sake of pandering to Brian. He’d fix it, he’d talk Brian’s ear off at the club and regain that inch of traction he felt. So long as he fought every instinct he had.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In Roger’s head, he and Brian would be in a quiet corner, a cramped booth at the back of some club, a pair of whiskeys between them along with the words Roger was always too sober to say. Brian was never one for the center of the room, no matter what the center was. He expected to walk in, have a shot with Freddie at the bar before politely declining the open invitation to dance that John took instead and then he’d find whatever hidey-hole Brian weaseled his way into and let the conversation flow from there.</p>
<p>And for the most part, that’s how the night started. He went in under Freddie’s arm after swearing on his own life that he was fine. That wasn’t entirely true, but he was in no mood to bother Freddie with the truth, not when he already had to try and bother Brian with it. The shot Freddie bought him was a good initial kick of confidence, but he needed the whiskey to really dig in and he’d much rather have his back against the bar and his eyes on his glass than be in the mess of strangers all dancing around John and Freddie.</p>
<p>Phase two, getting Brian away from the girl he was chatting with to monopolise his time for a moment, should’ve begun right then as Roger got his second whiskey that he planned to nurse the whole night. His interest in getting anywhere past buzzed in a public place had gone down recently, but if anyone asked he was appalled at the club’s prices. Brian was in his sights, and it was never very difficult to pull him from a conversation, no matter what it was he was always too polite to say no. But, Roger wondered, what exactly was it that he was so desperate to say?</p>
<p>He was still just as much of a mess as he had been a week ago, he had nothing to offer Brian other than bland conversation that they weren’t exactly excelling at these days. Might be best he practice that anyway. It’d be no good to have spent so long unable to speak only to try a black belt conversation off the bat.</p>
<p>But they had to talk, it’d be awkward and painful but it had to happen. He could sacrifice his comfort over the next few days if it meant they’d get on the plane home without avoiding eye contact. This silence, this rigidity was a disease that Roger didn’t want to risk bringing back home where he may never be able to get rid of it. That was worth an awkward, whiskey addled conversation to him. He watched the bartender pour his whiskey and kept his eyes on the rim of the glass until it was safely in his grip, covered by his palm. Then he mustered up any extroversion he had left to meet Brian across the room.</p>
<p>He meandered through the small crowds all clumped together in their cliques, his hand firmly covering his drink as he went and his arms pulled tight into his body. Brian spotted him. His brow furrowed and his eyes never left Roger when he said something to the woman he was talking with. She said something back and passed Roger on her way to the bar with a smile. She didn’t look upset which meant Roger hadn’t ruined Brian’s chances with her. At least they’d get off on the right foot.</p>
<p>“She’s pretty,” Roger said in a voice that was too loud to be casual.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Brian looked him up and down, “do you need something?”</p>
<p>“What would I need?” Roger said with a scoff. Brian pressed his lips together in a tight line and shrugged. Roger did the same, nodding as he went. He knew he’d be the one shoving the conversation along but he’d hoped Brian might be a little more responsive. “What’re you drinking?”</p>
<p>“Er…” Brian checked his glass, “dunno, Donna got it for me.”</p>
<p>“Donna? Is she the,” Roger pointed over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>Roger clicked his tongue. “Yeah,” he muttered much too quiet to be heard. “So—er—the show was—”</p>
<p>“Roger,” Brian interrupted, straightening up and standing at his full six feet three inches when he did, “what’re you doing?”</p>
<p>“What’d’you mean ‘what am I doing’, I’m talking to you,” Roger spat.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because,” Roger felt a strange sort of anger bubble up. He was making an effort to patch this over, Brian didn’t have to do anything except stand there and be as polite as he always was. “What am I not allowed to fucking talk to you anymore?”</p>
<p>“Don’t be a child,” Brian hissed. “If you need something, you can have it, but after what happened I’d like my space.”</p>
<p>“What would I need?” Roger said, already on the defensive, just like Brian. He didn’t respond but looked at Roger, then to the crowds and got his point across silently. “I’m not a fucking child—I don’t need caring or looking after—I—”</p>
<p>“Well if that’s the fucking case then go away,” he said with a humourless laugh.</p>
<p>“Why?” Roger all but whined. It didn’t fit Brian’s demand that he stop being a child but he couldn’t articulate his emotions past that.</p>
<p>Brian just scoffed. “Rog—you knew how I felt and you…did…that,” his words lost their edge when he began glancing around to make sure no one overheard. “I’m upset,” he said firmly, more firm than Roger had ever heard him, though his eyes were on his shoes, “I won’t stop being upset just because you’re bored of it.”</p>
<p>“I’m not bored of it.” Roger’s voice was seconds away from shouting. He always thought he’d be understood better if his words were louder but this was something that ought to stay quiet. “Do you even care why I did it?”</p>
<p>“Enlighten me,” Brian said fairly calmly. But he used that tone he used in the studio when Roger dared to make a comment about the guitar part. It was a calm and seemingly fair tone that was welcoming at first but Roger knew the second he opened his mouth Brian would be on him with every reason Roger was wrong.</p>
<p>“I,” Roger huffed, “I…” what could he say? He barely knew the reason himself. Kissing Brian all that time ago was out of frustration and a need to feel superior in some way. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility to assume that what happened the week before was also done selfishly and for his own ego. But—it didn’t feel that way. It felt like he wanted Brian and he happened to fill in the gaps no one else could… How could he explain that without sounding insincere.</p>
<p>“That’s what I figured,” Brian said after a long silence between them.</p>
<p>Roger clenched his jaw. “I’m trying,” was all he could manage.</p>
<p>“Stop trying,” Brian said with a drawn out breath. “Just leave me in peace, Rog. Let this pass for fuck’s sake.”</p>
<p>Let what pass? What were they leaving? Their feelings? As confused as they were, Roger wanted them and he thought Brian did too. How could he turn on a dime like that and just decide to wait for them to fade like they were nothing? Was what Roger did really so fucking evil? He’d asked for it as a favour from a friend but he’d wanted it from Brian for a reason. Why did that make him a villain?</p>
<p>“Y’know what, fine,” Roger knocked back his whiskey and handed the glass off to Brian, “fuck it, let’s just forget it. Fuck your feelings for me, and mine for you, let’s just fucking forget it, you fuckin’ prick.”</p>
<p>“Your what?”</p>
<p>“Next you’ll be asking me to forget we were friends—then bandmates, you’re so fuckin’—so nonconfrontational and you think it’s a good thing—you think it makes you seem levelheaded and mature but it fucking doesn’t, all it does is make you throw away shit you’re supposed to care about—so fuck you!”</p>
<p>“Your feelings?”</p>
<p>“If anyone asks I went home,” Roger shoved his way past Brian and ignored the few shouts of ‘Roger, wait’. No point in it. If Brian saw that night as Roger using him, he’d never be able to shift that opinion or convince him of the truth, not with his short but poignant history of hurting him.</p>
<p>The thick air of the club gave way to the fresh breeze outside once he burst through the front doors. He could barely remember when the smokey air of a hot club was comforting rather than suffocating. Though the fresh air didn’t ease the tightness in his throat or his chest. He fished a cigarette from the carton in his pocket and held his lighter tight to mitigate the way his hands shook. Not from fear or panic this time, he was relieved to realise. It was from the adrenaline of shouting at Brian and the subsequent regret that came with it.</p>
<p>He hailed a cab and when he flubbed in the back and told the cabbie where to, it all felt so bittersweet. He was feeling better. He was in a club at night without panicking about each movement each man made. He was in a cab alone with no genuine concern of being taken somewhere. He still flinched when the man touched him earlier backstage, and he still kept his hand over his drink the whole night but he could handle more and could enjoy the thing he used to a bit more. And with that step forward he’d also leapt back.</p>
<p>Maybe that’s where he’d stay. Not quite healed in his body, in his mind, or in his friendship with Brian. Maybe it was all scarred and he’d just have to accept a new reality forced upon him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Freshly showered, Roger stood and stared through the streaks of fog on the bathroom mirror. His focus on the scar. God it really felt like it was getting bigger. If not bigger, then worse. As with everything else, it wasn’t on track to heal, and it may be backsliding. It wouldn’t heal and he knew that. But it felt good to stand there for a moment and fantasise about getting some antiseptic and a bandage and tending to it. He could continue to check on it and watch it shrink day by day until it really left and so did all the other complications that came with it.</p>
<p>A nice fantasy.</p>
<p>He toweled off and tugged clothes onto his damp skin. He turned his bed down and bunched himself up in the sheets. The telly on and a mini bar snack in his hand. Less like a rock star on tour more like a divorced dad with nowhere else to go and no one to spend his time with. He could a make a life like this. He could become the quiet mysterious hermit of a band member and get fat on hotel snacks and get lonely off his own solitude. Adjusting to that felt a hell of a lot easier than exhausting himself day after day for minimal progress.</p>
<p>He tugged open the aluminum poptab on a can of macadamia nuts and slid it right back shut when he heard a knock on the door. Instinct told him management was about to tell him off for running their hotel bills up.</p>
<p>“Roger,” Freddie’s voice accompanied the knock, “are you awake in there—actually, I know you’re awake because I can see the lights’re on so you may as well let me in.”</p>
<p>Roger stuffed the stiff foil back down over the popcan of nuts, a futile and insignificant effort to hide how comfortable he’d become in being locked away in a hotel room. He clicked the telly and the shitty public access station he’d been watching off. The slide of the chain lock, of the dead bolt, of the door lock, were all humiliating in a way he couldn’t describe and left him a little flushed when he finally got the door open.</p>
<p>“Did you need something?” He tried to sound nonchalant.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to bother but…Can I come in?” Freddie sighed. Roger stepped to the left and let him wander in. He shut the door and hoped Freddie didn’t notice him doing the locks back up. If he did he didn’t say. “Roger—I know that you are getting better and probably don’t want to,” he huffed when he sat on the edge of Roger’s bed. Roger stayed awkwardly loitering by the telly, “talk anything through but…to be blunt, what’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“What’d’you mean?” he said with a half hearted scoff. A blind man could see Roger and Brian were in the thick of rough patch and he didn’t know why he bothered playing it off. And the look on Freddie’s face read clear that he didn’t know why Roger bothered either. He took a heaving breath out and sat at Freddie’s side. “Brian and I had a fight.”</p>
<p>“I gathered that fucking much,” Freddie rolled his eyes. “I haven’t seen you two say more than ‘hello’ in ages.”</p>
<p>“Well—then why ask?” Roger sniped.</p>
<p>“Because you told me you were on the mend, you swore it, and now you and Brian aren’t even speaking.” Roger could tell Freddie was looking over at him but he stared straight ahead. “And then tonight—the first night either of you will leave your fucking rooms—you storm out of the club and Brian storms out not ten minutes later.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing serious,” though he didn’t know if that was true, “you know how we are—we get under each other’s skin too easy.”</p>
<p>“Yes but it’s never this bad,” Freddie was quick to remark.</p>
<p>In all honesty, he wouldn’t mind unloading this on Freddie. It didn’t seem so daunting now, he didn’t feel so fragile with it. But it wasn’t just his secret to tell. “Why don’t you go ask him if you’re so curious.” He said it almost as a dare, in hopes that maybe Freddie would just go to Brian instead.</p>
<p>“Roger,” he sighed, sounding beyond tired and tried to rub the worry out of his forehead, “please, I just want to know how to help, why’s it got to be such a fight?”</p>
<p>It should come from Brian, he was the one sitting on his feelings for so long. But Roger felt them too and Freddie looked so helpless. He never looked helpless, especially when he took it upon himself to mediate. Freddie looking anything less than perfectly self-assured was too sad a picture to leave hanging.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Roger gripped the edge of his mattress, “this stays in this room.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Freddie nodded.</p>
<p>“So,” he looked at Freddie’s expectant face and tried to find<em> just</em> the right words, the words Brian might choose if he were there, “I don’t know if you’ve ever…noticed this but Brian’s sort of…” he felt his face heating up like it was his own secret, “he’s fancied me for awhile and…I think I’ve done some stupid things because of it.”</p>
<p>“You’re joking?” Freddie all but whispered. Roger tightened his lips and shook his head. “Since when—”</p>
<p>“Long time,” Roger shrugged. That part didn’t matter, the gory details of Brian’s feelings weren’t on trial. If Roger had it his way they wouldn’t be spoken about at all. “I sort of...liked it in a way, he’s always so,” he gestured for the word he was looking for, “I don’t know, he’s always blushing and a bit goofy around me. It wasn’t like he tried anything, it was just endearing and <em>unspoken.</em> And…” he looked at his hands threaded in his lap, “after all this happened, I did something horrible.”</p>
<p>“Horrible?” Freddie scooted closer.</p>
<p>“I just—I got so fed up with everyone treating me like an invalid and…I kissed him to prove something,” he fiddled with the loose thread at the end of his shorts, “I regretted it in an instant but it took him a while longer to forgive me.”</p>
<p>“Christ,” Freddie’s face was screwed up in wince. He shook it off and added, “but he forgave you?”</p>
<p>“For that,” Roger laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Freddie went with him. “Last week I was with a woman, everything went haywire and when she left and I was sort of beside myself. Brian found me and—I mean, he’s so kind, after all I did, he laid there with me and said all the right shit.” He took a deep breath in and out. “And then he got me off—”</p>
<p>“Ah—hah—ah!” Freddie said. Roger could practically feel him shivering.</p>
<p>“What?” He propped himself up on his elbows when Freddie shot up.</p>
<p><em>“Ew,”</em> Freddie said with a grimace.</p>
<p>“Wha—<em>Ew?”</em> Roger laughed. “I thought you of all people would be fine with it.”</p>
<p>“You two are like family to me, I don’t wanna hear about who put what where,” Freddie said with a wince.</p>
<p>“No one put anything anywhere,” Roger said quickly. “We didn’t have sex he just,” Roger motioned vaguely with his hand and Freddie looked away like he’d seen the real thing. “Stop being a baby—You know you’d have a go if I let you,” Roger said, rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>“Please,” Freddie scoffed, “I’d ruin you.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” he rolled his eyes and dropped his elbows to lie back down. He waited a few seconds before Freddie laid down with him.</p>
<p>“So he got you off and then what?” Freddie said with a defeated sigh.</p>
<p>Roger smirked. If it were flipped, if Freddie had found his way to John’s room, he knew he’d be just as squeamish but it meant something that he was willing to listen even as his stomach churned. “I dunno really. I thought it was a good thing. But when I…was done, I tried to give it back to him and he was very adamant that he didn’t want me touching him. He stayed with me until I fell asleep but everything was so off. And then the next morning he asked if I did it because I wanted him or because I wanted <em>someone</em>.”</p>
<p>“And what’d you say?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t,” Roger sighed. “I didn’t know why I did it.”</p>
<p>“Do you know now?“</p>
<p>“A bit,” Roger’s eyes welled but he paid it no mind. He and Freddie were staring straight up at the plaster of the ceiling, it didn’t matter what he looked like. “It’s hard to say.”</p>
<p>“You’re overthinking it, Rog. I did the same thing with my first boyfriend, I knew what I fucking felt but I went over and over it in my head, making it more complex than it had to be.”</p>
<p>“I’m not doing that,” Roger wiped his eyes before any tears could fall. “But what’s it matter what I feel really? You all see me as this <em>creature</em> now. I’m like a wounded animal you’re keeping an eye on. And—fucking—you’re right, I’m damaged goods. I’m a disaster and I really want to be angry with Brian for pulling away but…I’d do it too I bet. And I don’t know if I asked him to get me off just because I wanted him, what if he’s right and I did it to prove that I still could? I can’t give him the answer, I don’t fucking know—“</p>
<p>“Roger,” Freddie snapped. Not loud but sharp enough that Roger paused his stream of thoughts and held his breath. Freddie propped himself up over Roger, just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re not damaged. You’re hurt. We treat you like you’re hurt because you’re healing, not because you’re a new person to us all. If I snapped my leg you’d offer me a hand up on stage, there’s no difference.” Freddie paused for a moment, daring Roger to argue with him, but he didn’t. “This whole thing feels like a mess because it is one. You told me you were having trouble touching yourself and so you had Brian do it? I mean—in what world is that not a recipe for confusion?” Roger nodded. He felt like he was a child being told off but for some reason it was comforting more than anything.</p>
<p>“I…just wanted to feel like myself again,” he whispered. “With him.”</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to criticise,” Freddie said, rolling back over on his back. “All I’m saying is I’m not surprised you don’t know every in and out of why everything happened the way it did. But what’s important—I think anyway—is that your feelings for him are genuine. And—Rog, I think that’s all he really cares about too. The ins and outs of all this <em>stuff</em> can get sorted once he knows that.”</p>
<p>“What if he doesn’t want to sort it?”</p>
<p>“You said he’s been fawning after you for how long?”</p>
<p>“That’s different, that’s a fantasy and the reality has recently become a lot more complex—”</p>
<p>“Brian doesn’t live in his head,” Freddie interrupted. “If he really didn’t want to think about the nitty gritty of being with you, especially now, he wouldn’t be coddling you like this.”</p>
<p>Roger huffed. “Well, that’s a nice thought, but he has stopped coddling me.”</p>
<p>“Right,” Freddie said, drawn out and sarcastic. “He feels used and embarrassed I’m sure, just tell him the truth and he’ll stop sulking.”</p>
<p>“And what is the truth?”</p>
<p>“That you love him back.”</p>
<p>“Who said love?”</p>
<p>“Grow up,” Freddie laughed.</p>
<p>“I don’t think he’ll go for that, it’s all too much of a mess and he’s too upset with me.”</p>
<p>“The <em>melodrama</em> with you two,” Freddie poked his side. “God forbid you have an honest conversation—no it’s all meaningful glances.” Roger tried not to but giggled at Freddie’s words. Freddie did too once he heard Roger. “He’s a grumpy little man but he’s not vindictive. Especially when it comes to you. Honestly, if you showed a little more leg in the studio you’d get your way on every album.”</p>
<p>Roger followed the faint crack in the ceiling with his eyes. “I hope you’re right.”</p>
<p>“I’m<em> always</em> right.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Brian, I want you. I don’t know for how long but I know I do. I’m sorry for how things have happened but I never meant to hurt you. I’m not back to feeling how I used to and it’s complicated things—</em>
</p>
<p>No, best not bring that up. The last thing he wanted was to give Brian a free pass to think and talk about him like he was tragically ill and needed to be nursed back to health.</p>
<p>
  <em>I should’ve told you when we were together that night but my feelings have been harder to read lately.</em>
</p>
<p>That sounded much better. A clear reason for why he hadn’t been upfront with his feelings when it mattered without directly referencing the cause.</p>
<p>“Rog! Hurry up, you’ve got forty minutes before the bus is gone!” One of the managers shouted through his hotel door.</p>
<p>“On it!” he replied with one hand holding the blow dryer and the other gripped tight on a round brush. The same way he did every morning. Only today it was more of a nervous tick than a rote routine.</p>
<p><em>I should’ve told you </em>blah blah blah <em>I’m sorry I hurt you but I hope you can forgive me.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>I hope you still love me.</em>
</p>
<p>Too cloying. No matter how much he wanted to say that he knew he couldn’t. The optimist in him had a fantasy of Brian telling him none of it mattered. He’d promise him he understood it all but didn’t pity him for his circumstances and he’d know exactly what to say, what to do, how to touch.</p>
<p>The realist, or rather, the pessimist, forced his focus back on the base reality that he should focus on the apology first. Brian deserved an apology and an explanation for what happened. That didn’t mean he’d like the answer, it didn’t mean he’d accept the apology, it didn’t mean he still felt anything, and even if he did, that didn’t mean he’d indulge it. So rather than put the cart before the horse only to be disappointed, he started with low expectations.</p>
<p>He switched his blowdryer off and hurried to pack it in his bag. He replayed his little monologue in his head on the way through the halls, down the elevator and into the hotel’s cafe. Each time he changed words, phrasing, order of the whole lot. It never sounded quite right, or even close to what he was really trying to say. Part of him wanted to scrap it all together and give up on the prospect.</p>
<p>Though, that urge left him when he saw Brian’s sleepy face sitting by Freddie. God, he embarrassed himself with how schoolgirlish he felt. He’d never done that with Brian, he’d never felt his breath hitch like that. Or…well…he had. But he’d always called it excitement, adrenaline thinking about how he’d be able to get Brian to blush red.</p>
<p>“I ordered you bacon and sausage,” Freddie said, pointing to the plate by John. “If you don’t like it don’t say anything.”</p>
<p>“I love it,” Roger said. His hand shook when he set his bag down. He almost rolled his eyes at himself. He was nervous, who wouldn’t be, but come on.</p>
<p>“Eat quick, we leave soon.”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright,” he fumbled with his fork. He glanced up at Brian. Horrible idea. He was looking back at him. Words on the tip of his tongue, just about to be spoken. So Roger turned his attention to the breakfast sausage on his plate which suddenly required all of his attention. He’d never been more grateful to be crammed around one table with all three of them. He’d rather not get time alone with Brian until after he’d eaten. Once he’d eaten he’d be fine.</p>
<p>“Hungry are you?” John teased.</p>
<p>“Starving,” Roger said with a mouth full of bacon.</p>
<p>“You’ve got twenty minutes, Rog, chew your fucking food,” Freddie laughed. Then he stood, stretched his arms and plucked his jacket up off the back of his seat. “I’lll make sure we don’t leave anyone behind.”</p>
<p>“Wait for me,” John pushed his chair back.</p>
<p>“Wait—wait,” Roger gulped down his scaldingly hot coffee while John and Freddie lingered a ways away from the table, waiting for him to catch up.</p>
<p>“Hold on—Rog,” Brian said in a quiet voice but one sharp enough to make Roger pause his frantic movements and actually look Brian in the eye. “Can we talk for a second?”</p>
<p>He told himself he needed to practice that morning before they spoke. Then he said he needed to get a full stomach before they spoke. Now he was sure he needed another hour or six of time alone before he’d be ready. “No,” he said without thinking.</p>
<p>“No?” Brian cocked his head.</p>
<p>“Er,” he couldn’t. Not yet. It wasn’t perfect enough. He needed an apology so kindhearted and convincing Brian would leap into his arms the moment he finished speaking. He definitely didn’t have that yet. So he stood up and put his jacket on. “We—we can’t—we’re—we’re late for the bus.”</p>
<p>“We’re not late,” Brian stood and grabbed his bag when Roger grabbed his own. Roger almost forgot Brian could also get up and go to the bus. Running through the carpark didn’t really buy him time.</p>
<p>“We will be,” Roger said, hurrying toward Freddie and John. Brian was a lot of things and shy was one of them. He wouldn’t get personal in front of anyone who he didn’t absolutely need to. The worst he would do was shoot disappointed or maybe frustrated looks in Roger’s general direction the entire trek to the bus. When they loaded up and started on their way, Brian sat as far from him as he could and as far as Roger could tell he took a nap as a way of sulking.</p>
<p>He’d add this to the apology. As soon as he’d drafted his masterpiece of an apology he’d tack on his behaviour that morning. It was worth it if it meant he got more time to think about what he’d say. Brian could put up with a lot and he often did, just by virtue of his disposition. But Roger knew he was at his breaking point and if he didn’t want to throw him and their friendship over the edge he had to say just the right thing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If he could just avoid him a little longer he’d find the right words. Probably. He opted out of Freddie’s offer to explore the city when they arrived and instead sat in his hotel room staring at the wall. He needed that time anyway, he figured. It wasn’t about avoiding Brian it was about avoiding him until he knew exactly what to say.</p>
<p>If he was forced, sure, he’d tell Brian the bare bones truth about how he felt, how sorry he was for the outcome. But he’d rather take his time with it. In an ideal world, his little apology would absolve him of his wrongdoing, convince Brian he wasn’t the disaster everyone assumed him to be, and have Brian eager to love him again. That was a heavy task for a few sentences and as easy as it felt to think of something when he was alone, he knew it wouldn’t feel adequate when he saw Brian.</p>
<p>He rode with the roadies to the venue and, in his desperation to never be left alone backstage, let Freddie put shadow and liner on his eyes before the show. He kept his head down and focused on his drums, for most of the performance, and insisted Freddie be the one to take his makeup off afterwards. He didn’t want to risk scrubbing it off himself in the loo only to have Brian corner him for a conversation again. He wasn’t sure what it was that had him so eager to talk—Roger calling him an uncaring prick the night before might’ve had something to do with it though. As much as he wanted time alone to perfect his speech, he also was keen on avoiding a lecture from Brian about why he was entitled to his distaste for Roger.</p>
<p>Staying home would’ve probably been a smarter move, but after he’d spent the entire afternoon in his hotel, he didn’t hesitate to join in on the club. He didn’t think through how most of that time would be spent bobbing and weaving his way through crowds to avoid Brian and after his third whiskey he slipped out and grabbed the chauffeur they’d rented for his ride home.</p>
<p>He hurried through the hotel lobby to the lift, as if Brian were hot on his trail and only relaxed when the doors closed. He couldn’t avoid him like this forever. Maybe he ought to just listen to whatever it was Brian wanted to say. If Roger focused he could practically hear it already. A rant about how Roger had hurt him and he was entitled to stay hurt. He’d spent the day brushing it off as silly and reactionary but with the cold silence of the lift and the whiskeys in his blood, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t just worried he’d say that and mean it.</p>
<p>No, he didn’t expect his apology, no matter how well crafted, to by default make Brian swoon. But the idea that he wouldn’t care—or wouldn’t accept it, did shake him. The idea that he’d got to Brian too late, hurt him too much, and missed his shot only now, only as he began to realise how badly he didn’t want that to happen.</p>
<p><em>That’d be just my luck,</em> he thought. It took a horrible trauma to get him to notice what been plain before him for years, and soon as he noticed he broke it.</p>
<p>He stumbled his way to his door and reached in his pocket for his key. Reached in his empty pocket for his key. He tried his other empty pocket. Then his empty jacket pockets, then his empty front pockets, then his empty shirt pocket which was still sewn shut. He jiggled his doorknob but knew that was a deadend before he started. When his door caught on the doorlock, he took a tired breath in and headed back to the lifts.</p>
<p>When he stepped back into the lobby, a small crowd drifted through the foyer and the sitting area. Some men, some younger girls, that all seemed to perk up when Roger’s boots clicked on the tile of the entry. He shuffled his way from there to the check-in desk. Crowds that came from their audience tended to be easy to spot. At least for Roger. But often, if he kept his head down, he could go unseen. He didn’t have the presence that Freddie had, the height that Brian had. He and John, often, could put on a pair of sunglasses and make it through just fine.</p>
<p>“I’ve lost my key,” Roger all but whispered to the front desk clerk.</p>
<p>“Oh dear,” the woman said, “what’s the name?”</p>
<p>“Er…it’s—it’ll be…” fuck what would it be, who checked them in, “it’s erm…”</p>
<p>“It’s just your last name,” she said.</p>
<p>“No it’s er—my manager checked me in.”</p>
<p>“I can try their name?”</p>
<p>That’d be convenient if their tour manager had made the booking. “Er…can I tell you the number?”</p>
<p>“Um…” the woman looked from him to the book at her table, “we’re not supposed to give keys away without…like a confirmation…”</p>
<p>“Okay er…can you—here, can you ring up to my manager?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” she perked up and lifted the receiver. “What’s the room number?”</p>
<p>“Er…can I just give you the name?”</p>
<p>“Alright,” she said, though she looked over her shoulder when she did. Luckily she found his name and moved to dial up to his room. “Oh—hold on, it says he’s not accepting calls.”</p>
<p>“What—what’s that mean?”</p>
<p>“It means he doesn’t take calls from the front desk, it has to be from staff.”</p>
<p>“Well—it is from staff, you’re the one phoning him.”</p>
<p>“It’s against policy,” she looked apologetic and though Roger felt sympathy for that he didn’t care for the bureaucracy keeping him from locking himself in a hotel room.</p>
<p>“Can’t you just ring him and tell him it’s me? I swear on my life and your job he won’t be cross.” He put a hand over his heart.</p>
<p>“I could but…who are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m Roger,” he whispered, “Taylor.”</p>
<p>Her eyes went wide. She paused for a moment then leant in closer to whisper, “Liz Taylor’s brother?”</p>
<p>“I…yes,” Roger choked out.</p>
<p>“But you’re British,” she said.</p>
<p>“It’s for a role—Don’t make a big do of it.”</p>
<p>“If I can just get your ID, then I’ll call.”</p>
<p>“Okay okay,” Roger rifled through his pocket for his wallet and shimmied out the license that he’d had crammed in there for years. No one’d ever asked for it.</p>
<p>“Born in ’46?” she cocked her head.</p>
<p>“Yes?” Wasn’t that part obvious?</p>
<p>“Liz Taylor’s brother was older than her,” she slowly slid his license back to him and rested the receiver back on the hook.</p>
<p>“Wait wait,” Roger sighed, “I lied—I’m not her brother but I <em>am</em> a drummer for a band and I <em>have</em> lost my key.”</p>
<p>“What band?” she huffed.</p>
<p>“Queen,” he replied.</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>Roger picked his license up, tapped it’s edge on the counter, and tried to think how he might work this out. He could wander the halls for their manager or any of the roadies, he could wait in the hall and hope Freddie or John found their way to him and sorted it out with the front desk. Though it wasn’t the most foolproof idea, his mind immediately decided on — “I’ve lied again, I’m Liz Taylor’s younger secret brother.”</p>
<p>“Sir,” the woman groaned.</p>
<p>“‘Scuse me,” a high voice said to his left. Roger turned and forced a polite grin for the girl standing by him. “Are you the drummer?”</p>
<p>Why did they never remember his name? “Er…yes but—”</p>
<p>“I told you!” she screamed back to her friends.</p>
<p>“Please,” Roger slammed his hand on the countertop, “please just phone my manager.”</p>
<p>“I dunno, why don’t I call Liz herself?” she said flatly.</p>
<p>He kept his back to the counter while her and her little friends crowded around him. The girls wanted signed tits and offers up to his hotel room, the men seemed to want much the same judging by how they gawked at him. Being so surrounded by so many who were all after the same thing had his hand shaking with each shitty autograph. But the solid wood of the front desk behind him was enough to keep him sane.</p>
<p>“Sir, you’ll have to take this out of the lobby,” the woman said.</p>
<p>“Give me a room key and I’ll go,” he hissed.</p>
<p>“Give me proof of your room and I’ll give you the key,” she bit back.</p>
<p>“I—” he began, but couldn’t finish. He was interrupted by a hand on his arm. A gentle hand from one of the men. He didn’t know the intent but it didn’t feel sinister. Even so he yanked his arm away quick and stared at the man like he’d just done something much worse.</p>
<p>“You okay?” the man said with a curious expression.</p>
<p>Roger didn’t have an answer for him. He wanted to shout and shove them away and back out of his personal space. He wanted to yell a warning not to do it again. But he was silent. With a stupid look of shock on his face that he couldn’t override no matter how many times the young girls snapped in front of his face to get his attention.</p>
<p>“Oi oi!” a voice shouted across the lobby, in as quiet a voice as a shout could be. Roger didn’t need to look to know who it was, but he couldn’t help follow the big puff of black curls hurrying through the lobby and elbowing his way through the crowd. “Give the man some fucking space.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you Brian May?” one of the girls said with a stunned excitement. They called Roger ‘the drummer’ but knew both of Brian’s names.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t crowd people,” Brian said, more timid now that he was between Roger and the crowd. He shooed them with the back of his hand. “It’s not polite. You’ve got to ask.” Leave it to Brian to tell entitled fans to fuck off without getting a frown from a single one of them. “We’re people, just people, shouldn’t mob people.” He kept on shooing them, as firm as he could, until they’d given them a considerable if not temporary bit of space. “Let’s go up?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Lost my key,” Roger replied. With Brian there his breathing evened. And as glad as he was to have someone there to demand his personal space, he was embarrassed that he needed it.</p>
<p>“You won’t get much done with them lingering,” Brian said. Agreeing meant he’d have to go up and he’d have to piece together the best bits of the apology he’d worked out or risk Brian jumping in to tell him he’d ruined their friendship. Disagreeing meant what? Staying in the lobby with strangers until Freddie came home with their manager?</p>
<p>“Fine.”</p>
<p>Brian was polite about telling the few that tried to follow that only guests were allowed on lifts. That wasn’t true but his gentle pushes until the doors shut were enough to keep them off. Once the lift lurched upward with one loud creaking heavy, Roger breathed a shaking sigh of relief. He wished it weren’t the case, wished he wasn’t still so turned around and blindsided by people just speaking to him, asking him for autographs.</p>
<p>“You alright?” Brian rested against the back wall next to him.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Roger snapped. “And I don’t need you doing shite like that.”</p>
<p>Brian took a deep breath in and sighed out a defeated, “okay.”</p>
<p>The doors slid open on their floor and Brian led the way to his room. He held the door and mumbled something about helping himself to whatever he may need. What could he need other than the phone to ring down to the front desk and try again. So he strode to the phone on Brian’s bedside, lifted the receiver, and searched the guide for which digit rang downstairs.</p>
<p>“Roger, can you stop for one moment?”</p>
<p>“I’ll be done soon,” he promised.</p>
<p>“Why’re you avoiding me?” Brian said, flat out. His voice was a horrible mix of exhausted and fed up.</p>
<p>“What’s it to you?” Roger spat, his search for the front desk’s number became a bit more frantic.</p>
<p>“What’s it to me?” he shouted, in his own way of shouting that didn’t really required raising his voice. “You ran out last night and haven’t spoken to me since—I want to talk to you and you won’t let me!”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to talk yet!” Roger could feel his pulse in his grip on the phone. “And I don’t want you acting like I need a carer—you don’t need to save me from crowds in lobbies!”</p>
<p>“I was trying to help—”</p>
<p>“I don’t need your help!” he slammed the receiver down.</p>
<p>“This again?” Brian groaned. “I know it hurts your pride but sometimes you do need help—why’s that such a horrible thing to admit?” Any anger Brian had was gone in his search for understanding.</p>
<p>“Because,” Roger said through gritted teeth, “I don’t want you looking at me like I’m…like I’m helpless.”</p>
<p>“I—” Brian’s jaw went slack, “I <em>do not</em> look at you like you’re helpless—”</p>
<p>“Sure you do, everyone does,” Roger threw his hands up in defeat. “I know I’m…off, I’m not an idiot, but I can fight my own battles. I don’t need you to intervene anytime anyone gets too close to me.”</p>
<p>Brian looked thoughtful for a minute, like he was really processing what Roger said, but his face still read as confused. “I can understand that…” he rubbed his forehead while he chose his words carefully, “but…Roger, the times I’ve intervened…it does really look like you…if not needed, at least<em> preferred</em> someone to do your talking for you.”</p>
<p>Roger couldn’t argue with that. Brian had come to his rescue when his body froze up and all he could do was stare terrified at whoever had instigated that horrible reaction in him. He didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. But— “I don’t want to be your—patient or your responsibility. I want you to see me how you always have.”</p>
<p>“I do,” Brian said with an unsure grin.</p>
<p>“No, how you <em>always have</em>,” Roger crossed his arms over his chest and held on tight, waiting for Brian to catch on. He knew he had when his cheeks blushed red.</p>
<p>“Why?” Brian put his weight on his back foot.</p>
<p>Roger couldn’t remember a single one of the versions of this speech he’d fine tuned. All the pretty poetry he’d crafted to try and present himself as collected and caring as possible was almost instantly forgotten when the anticipation hit him. Overtook him more like. And the words practically fell out of him. No decision, no permission. “I want you.” He felt lightheaded but stayed upright.</p>
<p>“Want me to what?”</p>
<p>“I,” Roger winced, “I mean I <em>want you</em>.” The look on Brian’s face seemed to understand it then. “And I’m sorry I kissed you like I did—and I’m sorry for how you must’ve felt after that <em>night</em>. But I didn’t do it just because I wanted to know I still could. I wanted—I want you.” <em>This doesn’t sound very good,</em> Roger thought. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when you asked me. My head’s been sort of,” he took a breath in, “a mess.” Brian smirked, Roger smiled. “You didn’t deserve all that…confusion—and you don’t deserve this horrible mess I’m in but I want you.” He put his trembling hands in his back pockets. “Anyway, that’s er…that’s my turn, your turn now.”</p>
<p>Brian halfheartedly smirked. It faded quickly as his face got more and more pensive. “When did this start?”</p>
<p>“I dunno,” he shrugged.</p>
<p>“Well…what I’m saying is…you think it’s just a byproduct of…”</p>
<p>“No,” Roger shook his head, he’d thought that one through, “no I…I can’t explain it but I’m sure.”</p>
<p>“Wow,” Brian breathed, staring off into space. He took a step, then another, toward Roger, thinking deep with each movement. “This isn’t a joke?”</p>
<p>“No,” Roger reached out for one of Brian’s hands and held it tight while Brian kept it limp. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting so horrible to you. It’s been a strange time for me and I…I dunno.”</p>
<p>“I—no don’t—I know—it—I—“ Brian paused, and laughed a nervous little laugh at how much he’d stammered. “What I mean is...Really?” Brian said, his eyes on Roger’s hand clasped around his.</p>
<p>Roger tried not to laugh. He brought his left hand up to rest on Brian’s collar. Brian’s blush turned dark. Roger’d missed that. He hadn’t gotten Brian to look so bashful in ages and the sight of him, red and flustered, reminded him of better times. He tugged Brian down by his collar, he’d never give him the satisfaction of going up on his toes, and kissed him quick. Brian made the most beautiful sound of surprise when he did.</p>
<p>He prodded Brian’s cheek with the edge of his thumb and opened his mouth just enough. Roger could practically feel the hesitation and excitement in the way Brian moved his tongue. All jerky motions and quick retractions. If Roger let him pull away, he might’ve even apologised. Nine times out of ten, Roger preferred people who oozed confidence and were secure in their experience. But Brian’s shyness right then was not just endearing but exactly what he needed. Someone who would worry about him in ways he didn’t think were worth it.</p>
<p>With one hand on the small of Brian’s back, he took a step back and pulled Brian with him. Then another, then another. Then he backed into the mattress and brought Brian down on top.</p>
<p>“Sorry—sorry—” Brian mumbled into Roger’s cheek.</p>
<p>“Don’t be.” Roger shut him up with a biting kiss and brought his knees up to snap around Brian’s hips. Brian froze then. “What’s wrong?” he asked as Brian pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.</p>
<p>“What’re you doing?”</p>
<p>“What’s it look like?”</p>
<p>“Is that such a good idea?”</p>
<p>Roger didn’t know. Not for sure but— “I want to.”</p>
<p>“I do too,” Brian laughed, “but I can wait.”</p>
<p>“But you don’t have to,” Roger rolled his hips up against Brian and watched his eyes flutter shut. “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Brian panted.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Roger said, smiling at how hard Brian was working to keep his composure.</p>
<p>“Okay but…okay.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Roger repeated.</p>
<p>It’d been so long since he felt that eagerness and desire for someone. He could count the days but they felt like decades each. After what happened he all but forgot how good it could feel to have someone above him, enjoying every inch. Roger teased Brian for how careful he was when he pulled Roger’s shirt off and made a point to rip a button off of Brian’s when he did the same. With his chest bare, Roger wondered just how visible the old scuffs, and his new scar, were. But if Brian noticed, he didn’t linger. Instead he kissed his way down Roger’s neck, across his shoulders, down his chest.</p>
<p>Roger closed his eyes and listened intently to how Brian hummed against his skin and touched him like he was royalty. His mouth lingered on each rib while his hand snaked, up and up, then down again, then back up and…then it wasn’t his hand at all. Brian’s light, gentle touch, didn’t feel like his at all. Didn’t feel gentle. Didn’t feel light, it felt burning hot and forceful.</p>
<p>Roger opened his eyes and took a gasping breath in. He gripped the hand on his chest hard, let his nails dig into the skin, and jerked it away from him. Back towards Brian.</p>
<p>“Ah—wh—ow,” Brian said as he fumbled to sit back on his heels. He shook his hand out and stared down at Roger equal parts confused and injured. “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Er…” that was a good question that Roger couldn’t really answer, “you touched my scar.”</p>
<p>“No I didn’t.”</p>
<p>“Yes you did,” Roger said. Maybe he had. He could’ve. Maybe that’s what made Roger’s subconscious run amok for a split second.</p>
<p>“Oh…I’m sorry,” Brian said with an apologetic hand on Roger’s thigh. “D’you want to stop?”</p>
<p>“No, no,” Roger beckoned him closer and back down into his arms, “just a hiccup.”</p>
<p>“You’re sure?” Brian mumbled with his face buried in Roger’s neck.</p>
<p>“Yes, c’mon,” he rolled his hips and sighed when he felt just how hard Brian was. There was a bit of self satisfaction knowing he’d done that to him, knowing that he’d fix it for him. While Brian made a deep purple mark on his neck, Roger reached between them. Reached for Brian’s fly. Brian moaned in his ear when Roger worked the zipper down. Roger moaned right back and slipped his hand into the waistband of Brian’s pants.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” he whispered against Roger’s jaw, “fuck.”</p>
<p>Roger choked back whines as Brian rutted down into the grip of Roger’s hand. There wasn’t much space to move with their bodies pressed so tight, and the angle made Roger’s wrist ache, but it was worth all that for the feeling, the weight of Brian’s cock and the sounds he made when he moved.</p>
<p>“It’s big,” Roger said. He couldn’t see it but he could feel it thrusting into his fist.</p>
<p>“I’m tall.”</p>
<p>“Think it’ll fit?” He could feel Brian twitch in his hand then.</p>
<p>“Is that how you want it?”</p>
<p>“I dunno. How do you want it? What’s your fantasy been?”</p>
<p>“God,” Brian laughed and bucked his hips into Roger’s hand with a little more force. Enough to make Roger rock his hips up against Brian’s thigh for a bit of relief. “I can’t decide, I’d like it however you’d give it.”</p>
<p>“Will you ride me then?” Roger whispered in his ear. Brian pulled back, lifted off of Roger just a bit, a sweet smile on his face and bright blush that covered his cheeks and his ears. Roger grinned back and moved his hand faster for him, just to watch his brows knit together and his eyes close.</p>
<p>He looked down, through the sliver of space Brian put between them, and caught a glimpse of Brian’s cock in his hand, grinding against his stomach. <em>How familiar,</em> he thought as his grip loosened and his hand fell back out on the bed.</p>
<p>“What is it?” Brian said.</p>
<p>He’d seen that before. So swollen and urgent. Leaking onto Roger’s stomach as Brian pressed down against him ever so slightly. So hot too. Hot enough to burn him. He’d seen that before. He’d seen another man this hard and this ready once before. It made his blood run cold.</p>
<p>“Rog, are you—”</p>
<p>“Get off,” Roger said.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“Get off!” Roger said.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Brian pushed himself up, his face full of concern. Concern that Roger didn’t care about.</p>
<p>He reached up, shoved Brian’s shoulder, and kicked his legs out with no real goal. He could feel himself screaming ‘get off’ but couldn’t feel himself thinking it. Not one inch of his body felt like it belonged to him as he thrashed and screamed and eventually, after either a few seconds or a few hours, he got his knee between them and shoved Brian up and off, over the edge of the bed and onto the floor with a bruisingly loud thud.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” Brian coughed from the floor. Roger sat up in a hurry like Brian might’ve somehow been seriously hurt from that short fall. He laid on the ground, on his side massaging the back of his head where he’d hit the floor, occasionally massaging the rib Roger’s knee had undoubtedly bruised when he shoved him off.</p>
<p>Shoved him off. Roger hoped Brian couldn’t see the flicker of a smirk.</p>
<p>He shoved him off. He didn’t hit him but he could’ve if he had to. For weeks now he’d had that horrible feeling of being right back in that alley. A sudden shift in the room, a sudden movement, a touch too close and he’d feel the same fear he’d felt that night. And he’d always frozen. Held his breath and waited for the moment to pass. “I pushed you.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Brian prodded the back of his head and sat up, righting his clothes when he did.</p>
<p>“I pushed you,” he repeated mostly to himself. He fought back. If Brian had actually attacked him who knew how effective his thrashing and shoving would’ve been. But he tried. He hadn’t tried before. But…why should he have to try when nothing had gone wrong? “Is your head okay?”</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” Brian sat up with his legs straight out and hand on his rib.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he said just above a whisper.</p>
<p>“Don’t be,” Brian shook his head. “What er…what happened though? What did I do?”</p>
<p>“Nothing,” Roger said, looking down at him on the floor fondly. Brian had done all he could’ve and it still wasn’t enough. “God—Brian, I think I need help.”</p>
<p>“Doing what?”</p>
<p>“No, for—as in…someone to help me fix this,” he said quieter, a bit more embarrassment in it. He spoke the words into his hands and waited a beat after he’d said them to look over and meet Brian’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Brian look at him with a focused expression, “I hope you don’t take this badly but…I think you need help too.”</p>
<p>Roger huffed out a laugh. “You told me that awhile ago…I probably should’ve listened.” Brian smiled weakly at him. He moved to reach his hand out for Roger’s then pulled it back. Unsure if Roger wanted to be touched. Roger was just as unsure. “Sorry,” he muttered, “sorry, this should’ve been fun—”</p>
<p>“Fuck’s sake,” Brian groaned as he heaved himself up off the floor, “it’s not your fault—and it’s not a big deal,” he stretched his back out.</p>
<p>“I threw you,” Roger laughed. “I won’t be angry if you’re angry.”</p>
<p>“I’m not,” Brian assured with a quiet laugh. He sat at the end of Roger’s bed, keeping a solid distance between the two of them. “Nothing’s broken.”</p>
<p>“That’s a low bar you’ve got for me,” he teased.</p>
<p>“If you threw me without cause, then we could fight about it.”</p>
<p>“I’ll keep that in mind.” He kept his eyes and focus on Brian who grew bashful under the weight of his attention and, bright red again, stared into the space between them. “Maybe there’s something on the telly?”</p>
<p>“Hm?” Brian perked up, unable to hide his blushing by now. “Oh—sure, there must be.”</p>
<p>Roger hopped up and flicked it on for the both of them. He’d spent all morning in the hotel and knew which channels were essentially duds. He flicked through the four or five options until he found the one that was mostly shite chat shows and quiz shows. Easier to watch that than try to pick apart soaps. He circled the bed and fell into the mattress. He patted the open spot next to him, hoping to get Brian to stop sitting stiffly at the very edge and start lying next to him.</p>
<p>Despite it all, Roger could see a slight tremble in Brian’s hands when he shimmied up the bed and laid next to him. How he could be trembling still, Roger couldn’t guess, but he loved it. No one had ever wanted him quite like Brian did. And, he hadn’t been aware until recently, but the reverse was true too.</p>
<p>“Thanks for understanding,” Roger mumbled against his shoulder when the night grew long.</p>
<p>“Don’t thank me for that,” Brian whispered back.</p>
<p>“I already did.” Roger reached for Brian’s hand. Their shoulders pressed together and their fingers threaded was about as close as Roger could stand to be in that moment. Brian didn’t ask for more. But Roger knew he wished he could. Roger wished he could too.</p>

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